Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope
by Carumati
Summary: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.
1. Chapter 1

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires some amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Amell**

The sound of her mabari's paw scraping at the iron deposit at the mountain side jolted her out of her reverie - Amell slowed her descent, stood still, and took a deep breath. Carrion... Darkspawn... Some ten meters to her right beyond the tree line. It was as if Janeka had left behind a trail of breadcrumbs - good mage, foulest woman. Amell tugged at the fraying thread of her cowl and reached behind for her staff, the spell for a fireball already on the tip of her tongue. It was over before her mabari could overwhelm the group. Instead, Dog (unfortunate name: by the time she had a better one to offer, Ser Barks-a-lot, thank you Anders, he was already accustomed and reluctant to change) returned at her heel with some herbs in his mouth.

"Elfroot doesn't stop the voices," she admonished while tugging at his lone ear, "I thought I told you that already. Thank you anyways, boy." Sighing, she straightened and brushed off dirt from the pants of her mercenary armor that she pilfered off a dead corpse: such was the lifestyle of a person living outside of the towns. "Stupid Janeka. Stupid Callings." A raven flew overhead as she again adjusted her hood, "the only thing worse than walking into a trap is knowingly walking into a trap without the knowledge of the nature of trap or or how to disable it. Is it brave, crazy, or stupid?" Then she smacked her cheeks twice, hard enough to sting, "Ugh. Stop talking to yourself, Amell." As if fleeing from her self-manifested insanity, the Warden Commander started a fast pace, feet eating the ground as she swiftly crossed the valley, Dog loping happily behind her.

As she rounded the bend, the small settlement of Haven slowly emerges from the Frostback Mountains like a mirage in the distance. Humble homes of pious men and women offered hints of a merry hearth through their windows - a marked difference from when she had last ventured here. All the reavers that had she killed so long ago must be turning in their graves. "The Temple was built into the mountain, a bit higher in altitude, if I recall correctly..." Dog barked an assent. "Right, right," Rubbing her hands together, she mumbled, "Let's hope that they allow inconspicuous visitors to peruse their libraries."

Divine Justinia's entourage that arrived days prior at Haven included countless scholars, many Brother Genitivis, and tomes that hold a more unbiased, historical viewpoint of the origins of Darkspawn (Orlais has always held knowledge for the sake of knowledge at a higher value than Ferelden, being more "civilized" and all). Perhaps there in the Temple of the Sacred Ashes, she could find a solution to the Calling madness. The problem was that she couldn't figure out whether the plan to infiltrate the Temple was her own or was encouraged by the Calling- and if it was the latter, then why to Haven and not to the Deep Roads?

Nervously, Amell fingered the locket resting between her collarbones, blood-red and warm to the touch. Flemeth had offered it hanging off one extended arm, reflecting light from a sun hidden behind the clouds, "It may not seem like it, child, but I am pleasantly surprised to find that you are still alive," the apostate had remarked with the usual glint in her eyes, one that Amell always failed to interpret, "was it Morrigan who found the ritual? She always did like to defy fate, which is why she broke the mold. It's the first step to godhood," and then she threw her head back and laughed at her private joke.

Amell had exchanged a not-so-discreet look with Dog and raised an eyebrow, "You want me alive like you want Morrigan alive," she had muttered, mind trying to connect lore and logic, "though I don't understand what this is supposed to do." She held up the locket, running a finger over the gem encased, jerking back as it trembles with power, "I won't have long to enjoy it. I don't know if you're aware but the Calling frequency is rising among the Ferelden wardens. We are all dying."

"Not so much dying as being picked off," Flemeth had dryly remarked.

"I've watched my people march toward their meaningless deaths. I am well aware," frustrated, she ran a hand through her hair, barely held together by pieces of string and ribbon- a rather apt metaphor for her life, "I'm looking for the one responsible but she's disappeared. And its not like I'm effective in this state of mind, waking up in places I don't remember walking to; my feet turning northward if I do not focus." Stupid Janeka. "But," the Warden Commander had mused, "you know that. You..." She turned toward the elder and eyed her critically, at her armor and bone-white hair, the wrinkles and the hard eyes, "you are something else beyond a batty, old woman that lives in the Kocari Wilds. I don't even know why you let me kill you, sort of, not really."

The elder woman had laughed. "Smart child, I did like that about you. This gift will help you solve your problems. Accept the boon and be grateful, for it is rare that I favor mortals, especially ones who tried to kill me. Or is it that my favor grew because you killed a part of me..." The witch had pursed her lips, "the latter," she decided as she touched the red gem with a finger, "wear this and you will not forget. It will give you... A fighting chance to save those under you. But beware, this is fragile and we do not share our fragile things. Do you understand?" Amell had wordlessly nodded, "Good. Then I am done here. The Hinterlands do not appeal to me in the slightest." Flemeth took five steps back and closed her eyes. The young mage did not blink as she watched the power swirl around the Witch of the Wilds, morphing her features into that of a familiar dragon.

"She works in mysterious ways, doesn't she? Just like the Maker." Amell had turned on her heels as soon as the dragon disappeared over the horizon and squinted at the trail marker sitting a few meters away. As she slowly increased her pace to a steady jog, she adorned the gift and shivered as the metal hit her skin. She didn't feel better; there was no miraculous cleansing of her mind and she could still feel the Calling pulling at the back of her head. The Taint was still there. Well, Flemeth had said that she could stop the sleepwalking, not the Blight.

The sheer presence of the Temple of Sacred Ashes forced a chill down her back... Or maybe there was some foreboding air about the structure, contrary to it's divine origin. She listened to the Chant echoing deeper in the mountain. After sending Dog away to gather more elfroot (the Temple did not allow mabaris, ironic considering that Dog was one of the original four of her party to traverse the area), tugging once again at her hood and making sure that her pack and her staff were securely strapped, she ventured through the doorway and... and...

**Leliana**

Vengeance sang in her blood like an old lover - it sang Marjolaine's song, once used to enchant the Orlesian nobles in the Empress's Court. The hunger for the death of her enemies was a feeling that she is used to but never had it struck with such speed or force as when she witnessed the formation of the large rift in the sky, high above the Frostback Mountains, the demons ravaging the once-peaceful lands, and the fires crackling around the destroyed Conclave. Cassandra stood in front of her own armed men before the ruins, face unmoving as if made of cold iron. Leliana's hands begun shaking as she listened to the warrior's report: she had known something was wrong, but this... The destruction pales in comparison to what she expected to find, to what she had hoped for. As her eyes inspected the utter havoc and as she began to calculate the costs of the fallout and the potential paths to take following the explosion, she listened, "...in the Temple that ripped the... releasing shades... One survived... require your skillset... She is beginning to stir."

"Take me to her," her tone promised retribution that few would imagine. She was led to a cell at the end of a long hallway in a structure that muffled the screams originating from the outside world. The two did not talk.

The prisoner was kneeling on the stone floor, wrists shackled by a wooden board, a sickly green sigil on her left palm, head bent forward, face covered by an over-sized cowl. Cassandra opened the barred doors, causing its inhabitant to startle, an aborted jerk but nothing more. The Seeker strolled forward, a hand gripped the edge of the hood, and abruptly yanked it back, revealing startled gray eyes, blinking rapidly at the sudden increase in light. Leliana drew a sharp intake of breath: the face tired but still youthful, the dark hair held back by strings and ribbons, the lips that could curl into an easy smile, they were all features she knew keenly, "Amell?!"

The mage warden stilled for a second before hesitantly calling out, "Leliana?" (Her name was the only Orlesian word that the warden could say without butchering the pronunciation.) Still blinded, Amell turned her head in the direction of the bard's voice, "Is that you?" She winced as the sigil flared up, "What happened? Why am I here?"

Cassandra stalked around the small encasement, hands twitching, itching to strike a blow toward the prisoner, "It appears that you know Sister Leliana. I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. We are the Right and Left Hand of Divine Justinia V. Her Most Holy perished with all the members of the peace conference who wished for ceasefire and all the clerics of the Chantry and the pilgrims who hoped for salvation in the war - the Conclave is gone." After a few moments of silence, broken by the footsteps of boots on the stone floor, she continued, "Fade rifts are opening in the skies above us, allowing demons to spill out into our world. My men spotted you falling out of the Breach, the original tear in the Veil. You are the only survivor."

"So many dead... You think I'm the one responsible," Amell whispered with a faint tone of incredulity, "I would not!" She turned to the other woman standing in the shadows and pleaded, "Leliana! You know I wouldn't!" And that's the crux of it, wasn't it? The Amell she knew would not condone such an action - the Hero of Ferelden would never wish for such bloodshed. This woman was not the enemy; she is a long lost friend. And yet, there are no other prisoners, no other suspects... Unless...

Leliana shook her head and kneaded the skin between her eyes, "I'll vouch for her character." Cassandra visibly cooled but remained restless, looking for someone to implicate - her rage was that of her blade, one that can be honed and sharpened. The ground trembled, dust fell from the walls as they shuddered on questionable foundations. "There are many things to discuss," many which included the fact that the Divine's agents had been searching for the Warden Commander for years just to have her fall into their laps at the worst of times, "but we have more immediate issues to address. Cassandra, release her so we can leave before the ceiling falls on us. Amell, tell me what happened."

The warden swayed onto her feet and half-collapsed onto Cassandra's shoulder as the locks clicked open. As she limped down the arched chamber, her head began to spin and it felt as if the exit was moving slowly away from her, ever out of her grasp.** S**he gingerly rubbed her raw wrists, frowning in thought as she slowly recounted her version of the events, "I was in the Fade, the paths were overwhelmed by spider-like creatures. I followed the figure of a woman, silhouetted by light... She reached out to me..."

"A woman...," Leliana murmured, exchanging looks with the Seeker, "Before that?" she further pressed as she scrutinized Amell's mien: glazed, unfocused, exhausted...

"I... don't remember," the mage admitted, wiping her face with her sleeve as she stumbled her way to the doorway and into the open air, "I was here initially to..." Her mouth dropped open, eyes widening in shock as she stared at the pulsing green hovering to the left of the mountains, "Is that a rift? Andraste's flaming-" And then she hissed, doubling over as the mark angrily crackled, green light shining past her clenched fists. Leliana pried open her fingers and made a displeased sound.

The Seeker's scowl grew darker, "There are many out there and it seems as though your little gift from the Fade might be connected to them."

"If you can take this gift off of me, I'll never curse again," the mage groaned, turning her head as to not accidentally swallow grass, trying to wave away Leliana's reawakened habit of fussing over her.

"It grows as the Breach grows: that implies a shared power," Cassandra continued as though Amell had not interrupted, drawing her sword and shield, "We can test this against the original. If my hypothesis is correct and that mark gave you the power to close the tears, then you are the only one who can save us."

From her place on the ground, Amell started laughing with a touch a hysteria.

**Cassandra**

Seeker Pentaghast had always known that her pledge to the Divine locked her into a future of dedicating her templar talents to serving the righteous. She had foreseen a future of battling all sorts of entities and overcoming all sorts of challenges: Chantry politics, darkspawn, corrupted wildlife, both sides of the inevitable mage-templar war, and the degenerates of humankind: but never would she had predicted that the sky will tear and scatter demons and spirits across all of Ferelden. It was as if all of Fate's worst possible choices had crashed down upon her: the death of all of those in the Conclave is one such tragedy that would take years if not a lifetime for her to forgive herself. Logically, she knew that she was not responsible for stopping a tragedy of this scale but...

So one could only look ahead - past the mass exodus to the north camp in Haven and past the initial success of stopping the Breach from growing. Many villagers were beginning see the Herald of Andraste as a means of salvation, the comatose mage that is currently being frantically treated by an alchemist turned reluctant healer, Amell, "Commander of the Grey, Ruler of Vigil's Keep, Arlessa of Amaranthine, and Hero of Ferelden," Leliana had informed Cassandra the day before she left camp to gather her scouts to the eastern parts of the Hinterlands, promising to return before the patient wakes. "Collector of unique friends," the Sister had added with a hint of smile on her lips, referring to the fact that neither Varric nor the elven apostate, Solas, had decided to join the groups that were trying to make their way to Orlais to escape the chaos and were at the camp waiting for her slow recovery to finish. "Her charm has not dwindled in the years that we've been apart. The dwarf had remarked that it was probably a family trait."

"So after scouring the entirety of Thedas, the Hero of Ferelden shows up on our doorstep with death, fire, and Fade chasing her," muttered the Seeker, resisting the temptation to rub her temples. Clearing her throat, Cassandra recalled, "Yes, Varric's story did detail the history of Hawke's immediate and extended family. I thought it was related to his characteristic habit embellishment. So it's true, the Champion of Kirkwall is related to the Hero of Ferelden?"

"Second cousins to be exact," Leliana affirmed, "though I think only Hawke is aware of the relation." The Spymaster bends down to brush off dirt from the tops of her boots, "The Maker has a sense of humor, does he not? These days, I do not know whether to smile, cry, or scream." she paused as she adjusted her hidden daggers, "I would strongly recommend you to debrief Commander Cullen before you assemble the War Council. And when you do tell him of the news, please break it to him gently."

Cassandra raised her eyes heavenward. She had once heard a wise woman remark that the strings that hold people of destiny, the people who have that will inside of them to make significant changes in history, were all connected - but she did not realize how nearly literal that statement would come to be. These series of seemly naturally foreordained events were beginning to wear on her, "Is he also familiar with the Herald?"

"Somewhat," the bard spoke slowly, as if delicately choosing the words to accurately frame the overall atmosphere that Cassandra can expect when she would next meet the Commander. "I don't know much of Amell's past before I met her; she offered very little. He was acquainted with her before she joined the wardens, when she was still an apprentice. I was there when we saved Kinloch Hold from a blood mage rebellion and he was one of the few templars we managed to rescue. It was not a pleasant reunion."

And because these days the Maker does seem to have a sense of humor, Cassandra was not surprised that when she walked towards Commander Cullen's desk later that day, that she would spy the dwarf sitting on a high-backed chair making conversation, seamlessly transitioning from one topic to another. The Seeker did her best to ignore Varric and the small smirk on his lips when he noticed how she momentarily twitched upon seeing him. "Looks like Seeker is here," he cheerfully announced, smoothly closing a worn, leather bound notebook and tucking it into an inner pocket, "you might want to look up from your papers before she decides to use that shield of hers to make you listen." At those words, the Commander glanced up and stood to welcome her in. After taking a moment to decide whether or not to kick the dwarf out of the room for some semblance of privacy (and in the end, she did not, believing that for all of his faults, Varric Tethras does know which words to use to unravel tension in a conversation), Cassandra spoke.

Although Leliana is usually correct in her judgments of people, she surprisingly downgraded the importance of this one instance. Saying that Cullen Rutherford knows of the Hero of Ferelden is like saying Leliana knows of the Divine. His reaction, the inkwell shattering in his hand, did not in any way show that his and Amell's relationship could be described with the word "acquainted." In a rare moment of synchronicity, Cassandra and Varric stared at the shattered glass on the floor, the black liquid dripping down between clenched fingers, at each other, and then back at the Commander, each with a raised eyebrow. "Do you need a private moment, Curly?" Varric asked as Cullen did not speak and instead stared at his stained glove as if it held to answers to all the questions in the world.

"I... No... I'm fine." The man forced himself out of his dazed reverie. Many emotions danced on his face unguarded: conflict, hope, anticipation, others flitted by so fast they were unreadable. He drew in a deep breath as he separated his stained papers into two piles: the salvageable and the unreadable, turned toward Cassandra, and struggled to regain his authoritative air. "The Herald... Hero... Amell... Amell. I read your report where you stated that she was unconscious when she arrived due to the battle with the Pride Demon and suspending the growth of the Breach but - I mean, can I..." He trailed off, the tips of his ears turning into a shade of red that was visible even as he ducked his head.

"Our chemist is trying to heal her, but it seems like the elven apostate, Solas, is doing most of the tending. He explicitly stated that he was not to be disturbed until she can walk." Thank goodness he said so - for his word and self-proclaimed expertise of the Fade is one of the main factors preventing the locals of Haven from treating the Herald's small cabin as a secondary Chantry. "His vigilance at her bedside is admirable," she stiffly admitted.

"Chuckles mentioned something about making sure that the Mark doesn't kill her as she heals," Varric helpfully added, knuckles rapping against the wood of the desk. "He's lucky her mabari allows him cast all those spells on her; that animal is terrifying, even with the missing ear." Her dog is the other factor preventing a mob from forming at her doorstep.

Cullen kept shuffling his papers, "In that case, can I inquire how she is faring?"

Brow furrowed in mild confusion, Cassandra dutifully answered, "Adam reported that she is expected to make a full recovery though he was adamant to emphasize the fact that she almost died multiple times and that he is not a trained healer."

"I mean when you first me her: how was she?" Sudden, the unspoken inquires in his sentences made more sense. Was she happy? Upset? How is she a person? Do you like her like I do? Frustration laced his tone as a red blush spread from the tips of his ears to his neck. He kept his eyes pinned on the opposite wall, careful to avoid both of the other occupants' curious gazes. The walls and floors were of stone, decorated by tapestries and fur rugs stripped from the warm bodies of bears and wolves. "It's- it's not what you think," he quickly backtracked, holding up both hands, palms forward.

Varric gave a low whistle, reaching in his leather duster for his notebook, looking as though he had won a lottery. After a moment of deliberation, Cassandra suddenly understood, "Ahh," she sighed as she crossed her arms.

"It's not what you think," he repeated, "We were only friends in Ferelden." It was a known fact to his circle of close friends that the Commander is not capable of winning Wicked Grace because of his tells: one most notable is when he rubs the back of his neck, signifying utter embarrassment. It is even more rare that he indulges in this gesture in a professional setting.

"Not with that attitude," Varric admonished, also crossing his own arms, "You're a horrible liar, by the way. Tell me, you said you knew of an Amell when Hawke and I first met you in the Gallows - that's her, I take it?" But Cullen, with finally enough time to recover from his blunder, clamped down, and refused to reveal anymore. Not that it could deter Varric; the dwarf tsked at the Commander, slowly shaking his head, "So those rumors... I thought so." Cullen slowly lowered himself back to his chair and covered his burning face in his hands, both the stained and the unstained. The Seeker closed her eyes in thought; what she knew of Cullen's past were from conversations with the man (regarding his battle with lyrium addiction), Leliana (the few words that he had exchanged with the Warden Commander at Kinloch Hold), and the story that she had wrangled out of Varric during his interrogation (the mess at Kirkwall). But this? This continuation of Leliana's intelligent thread was becoming too personal for her to feel comfortable to finish. The dwarf obviously had the same thought, for after two beats of silence he sighed and offered, "She looked tired."

Cassandra glared at the dwarf, who immediately dropped into a defensive stance, "Something more positive, Varric," she icily rebuked before turning towards the man behind the desk, "She is a noble woman, Cullen," a description that embodied the Seeker's opinion of what is the most highest praise. "Though I did not stay with her long, I can already identify the qualities that you admire in her."

Standing beside her, Varric failed to hide his burst of laughter, "Yes, noble. Let's just say that Hawke would love her." He raised a shoulder in a half-shrugging motion, "She reads _Hard in Hightown_; so she's automatically off of my immediate kill list." Cassandra suspects that it would only be a matter of days before he comes up with a suitable nickname for the Herald; she hopes that the dwarf would at least wait until she is awake.

"Thank you, both," Cullen groaned, voice muffled in his hands, "for your valuable input. An embodiment of contradictions; yes, that sounds like her." He heaved a deep sigh, straightening his back, his expression, hovering between torn and fond, disappeared. Varric chuckled; he had spent half of the day with the Commander regaling tales of his brief adventure with her - though he had not mentioned the name, such is the nature of Varric Tethras, with his one exception being Hawke. He did not expect the day to shape up in this manner. The light that shined through the windows was nearly parallel with the floor - night arrived with the dim noise of the men returning to camp with firewood. So ended day two of the Herald's... Amell's recovery. "Did she read any other of your books, dwarf? The ones where you narrated the life of the Champion of Kirkwall? Does she know what I did there?" What horrors he had both prevented and allowed past his watchful gaze, stationed at the Gallows. How he had served under a Commander who was willing to used tainted power to further her own plans.

"I don't think so; she didn't say," Lingering by the doorway, Varric mused, rubbing his chin, then hurriedly attempting to sooth the distraught man, "You weren't too terrible in Kirkwall, Curly. You fought alongside us in the end against an army of statues in the Gallows and Meredith when she began glowing - not many people can do that." After a few more minutes of Varric's awkward attempts at comfort which included, "Just direct her to me if she's scared - I'll make her believe that you kiss puppies every morning," the dwarf gave up and, after shooting Cassandra an unreadable look, announced his leave, and was gone, humming a small tune under his breath.

Cassandra patiently waited for the doors to close before audibly clearing her throat, "Commander." The man's eyes snapped up to meet hers; she assumed a ready stance, "It has already been decided that you will be one of her advisors. When we inform her of her place in the Inquisition, will I expect any problems between you two?" Because though she doubted that Cullen had an actual tryst with the Herald (they possibly had something close to that, but never the real thing), as what Varric was snidely implying, she did acknowledge some deep set, dark history between them, likely revolving around the infamous mage, Uldred, and the bloodshed at the Ferelden Circle.

To her surprise, Cullen laughed, low in his chest, emanating with a hint of bitterness, "From Varric's tales, you won't need to worry about any fuss from her end - it seems that she hasn't changed at all, even after all these years. I, on the other hand," he stares into a potential far distant future with a wistful expression on his face, "Regardless of what she thinks of me, I will be happy to see her again."


	2. Chapter 2

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Amell**

She approached the Black City that stood proudly at the end of a winding boulevard lined with burning pillars and impressions of dead trees. Great yet terrible, the Black City embodied the source of the misfortunes that Thedas continuously faced: it was sin, the consequences of man's pride, the birth of darkspawn taint; it was where the seven Tevinter magisters sought to view the throne of the Maker; it was where the Maker allowed his creations to fall. She walked slowly, taking in her surroundings with a hint of reverence and craning her neck upwards towards the green skies. The City was tantalizingly close; the City was a Calling. It was a chore to merely breath the air, heavy with promises of power and whispers of sacrifices that were required if one wished to become a god. Her steps echoed; hard soles tapped against the pavement. The vibrations echoed in sync with the distant humming that was all prevalent in the Fade. Various creatures shuffled restlessly just out of her periphery, observing, waiting patiently for her to... She froze.

_For her to what? _

Green light arced outwards from her left palm, cracking loudly as they struck the path ahead and rendering the cobblestones to obsidian; she hissed and curled inward as the pain traveled up her arm, branching out at her shoulder. Her mind fell out of the hazy dream-like quality of the Fade realm like ice down her back; she shuddered. Preternatural claws that were gently caressing her thoughts suddenly disappeared - their siren song turned into an angry silence of an animal that realized that their prey had escaped their grasp. Amell took two steps back and fell into a battle-ready stance, magic dancing restlessly under her skin. Her heart was beating an uneasy rhythm; the pulsing adrenalin rush forced a heady roar into her ears. The mind was clear now; she was aware. She frowned as her instincts began to take not as to what was wrong.

The strange conglomeration of towers, shrouded by a green haze, were closer than she could recall from her Harrowing or her pursuit of the Sloth Demon when she sought to save the Ferelden Circle - but, that can't be right: doesn't the Black City lie on an event horizon? Shouldn't it be unreachable? Shouldn't it be unattainable?

A lone howl of sorrow and anger pierced the veil-like nature of the surreal dimension. As the Fade creatures began to flank her, the feral sound pulled her away from the road. The world cracked in half.

Amell awoke: a slight hitch in her breath, a slight twitch in her fingers where her weapon should be... Nothing. Her entire body ached with the power of a thousand bruises; her head throbbed with similar vengeance. But she could sit up and... She grabbed her head as a sharp pressure struck her temples, muttering expletives under her breath. The Calling was stronger in her weakened state - taking the form of gentle whispers that encouraged her to join her fellow wardens at the Ferelden-Orlais border. With every word, the voices created spikes of pain on the skin where the green runic mark laid etched - a fact that did not make her happy, for it seems that her problems are intertwined with the Chantry's crisis and isn't that something to look forward to? A connection between the wardens' plight and the sundered skies is something a prophet would predict only when the world was ending. _The world is ending, again. _

Her hands skimmed across her abdomen; hands skimmed over high quality fabric - is this noble clothing? At least she didn't get broken ribs, unlike the last time she had fought off a Pride Demon. She grimaced: right, first order of business is to find...

The rhythmic thumps of a stubby tail knocking against a table shook her out of her reverie: Dog waited patiently by the far wall, next to a table that held a plate overflowing with fruits, Flemeth's fire opal amulet in his mouth.

Good dog.

The door opened. A elven servant, barely on the cusp of adulthood, startled at her wakened state, so startled that she couldn't coherently answer any of her questions. But her visit cleared up two things. One: Cassandra was waiting for her at the doors of the Haven Chantry to escort her to the Inner Sanctum to discuss various things (further pressing for details leaves the servant in confused tears). Two: Sometime during her comatose state, she was awarded with the title: Herald of Andraste - three words important enough to invite the most formal bows usually reserved for the most divine mortals in Thedas where palms, knees, and forehead all touch the ground. (She falls as a scrape goat; she wakes up a savior.)

Andraste... Because that was who the witnesses thought who the woman in the Fade was - and yet the witnesses fail to mention who the voice of the man was: the one who is most likely responsible for this disaster. At least she could be sure that it wasn't Janeka - or wasn't her anymore in some sense of the word. Did that mean that she was killed by her own prisoner? Was the darkspawn that the wardens held prisoner an Archdemon? That would explain Janeka's change in behavior but not much else. Amell sighed, wringing her hands together as Dog curled around her left leg, whining softly. Nothing fruitful came from her investigations and her sources were dead. It was back to the drawing board which consisted of... She chewed on her bottom lip in thought as she momentarily weighed the pros and cons between fleeing the village and returning to Soldier's Peak and following Seeker Cassandra into an unclear future. The woman had plans for her: what for - Amell couldn't say for certain. In the end, the warden sighed: at the very least she's guaranteed a friendly face - Leliana would make sure that nothing too drastic would happen to her.

Her injuries left her stiff, swollen joints, a result of being slammed into a few objects. There was a familiar burning on her left side, slightly soothed by liberally applied herbal balms: she also had the fun of skidding across a few unforgiving surfaces. Well, she was nothing if not a veteran of physical hardships. It took a few hesitant seconds to find her footing and then another few to make her way to the door, her muscles growing more confident as she stretched them. She was mobile - that is the best news she has for herself thus far.

The air outside was crisp and chilled by the north winds, smelling faintly of blacksmithing and open fires. The falling snow lightly dusted the rooftops and surfaces with a thin sheet of white. On her left was another cozy cottage with a figure leaning against the planked walls, overlooking the activity below on the campgrounds, ears undoubtedly pointed - it was the elven mage who claimed to have studied the Fade. "Solas?" Amell called as she ventured over the threshold, stepping over Dog that moved to take vigil under the overhang.

He turned, surprise and mild disapproval tinting his features, "You're awake - earlier than my estimates." He tilted his head in her direction, meticulously examining her for any obvious injuries that she could've incurred from moving too soon from her bed. He listened to her breaths, shortened from her body's strain but not from any lingering inner injuries and, with her permission, took her hand to examine the mark of the rift, "it is not growing. That is good."

Cautiously closing the door behind her, (what did she have to fear for, there was no witch-hunt after her and the cottage was an ill-choice for a place to hide regardless) she rubbed a hand over her face, before offering a tired smile, "Thank you for healing me."

"It was not only me," Solas corrected as he turned his head back to the landscape: small camps encased by a wall made of timber, a frozen lake beyond the training fields of sparring soldiers, mountains further still. To his left, hanging in the sky was the Breach, a cyclone of green energy and clouds, casting a strange glow that left the area in a perpetual sunset, "I was not the one keeping your heart alive. I was there to make sure that the rune did not overtake you in your dreams."

"And what strange dreams I had," Amell mumbled, leaning against the fence, smiling wryly as she ran a hand through her hair. As the sounds of metal striking metal and of civilians bartering with merchants drifted to her ears, she struggled to grasp a vision that had struck her when she was sleeping, "there was a wolf at my door."

"Pardon?" Amell glanced over at the man standing at her side, dimly noting how his eyes grew larger in alarm and his entire body seemed to be touched by Winter's Breath. She cocked her head to the right, staring curiously at his reaction. Solas doesn't have the typical villaslin of the Dalish, but he does carry himself like one - and their mythology depicted a trickster god that took the form of a wolf, from what she could vaguely remember from the stories around the campfire in the Brecillian Forest. That was ten years ago - how time flies.

"I heard a wolf at my door," she enunciated, a wave of nausea overtaking her, her breath condensing into steam, "I dreamed of a," She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to the snow covered fence, regaining her bearings, and licked her lips, "Sorry. I think I'm rambling. Please do not mind me. I need to go and... Ahh... Collect myself." Without looking back, she made her way down the stairs and towards the main courtyard, slow and steady, careful to not trip over her own two feet. Dog is at her heels with a mouthful of dirty pantaloons.

Various people blatantly stare as she passed by, causing her to wonder if its because she looks as bad as she feels or that the rumors had been spread so quickly that people already recognized her on sight as Andraste's Herald. She turned left, away from the merchant that stood in front of a display of weaponry, eyes drifting from one vaguely interesting object to another, not entirely registering what she was seeing. Her feet kept moving - one in front of the other.

Was she imagining the wolf? Hallucinations did often reappear after her most challenging battles and a Pride demon would always count as something nightmare inducing. The Fifth Blight had been the worst - constant ambushes by the darkspawn to the point that her paranoia had her jumping at shadows. Dreams of Hespith's catechisms, werewolves howling, the voice of the Sloth demon that took residence in Kinloch Hold, the endless army of corpses in Redcliffe Castle - they all combined into a huge wall of writhing black - reaching out to her and taunting her willpower to keep going. Zevran woke her up from the worst of them. Not that Alistair was even better: on the mornings after, he would wash his hands continuously for hours straight if no one was there to stop him. Such is the plight of the Grey Wardens. It seemed pretty clear that she was going to soon have a whole new stash of horrors to behold.

That was how Cassandra Pentaghast found her: lost in her thoughts, staring dazedly at the trebuchets.

**Cullen**

It was on a lovely sunny day in Kirkwall, on a typical, regular patrol shift in the Gallows where he had a sudden revelation that he was to suffer the fate of having Amells hounding his every step. It did not matter whether he had been transferred out of Ferelden and placed some amount of distance between him and his memories, it did not matter if the majority of them went by the surname of Hawke, it did not matter if they had never even met her, they all inevitably reminded him of her. The first time he spotted Garrett Hawke with his brother, the dwarf, and the guard captain tailing behind, his first thought was, "apostate." His second thought was, "Maker. They have the same eyes." He didn't flinch - time had offered a buffer between his psyche though the scars that the desire demon had raked over him, scraping her claws down his skin lightly, not drawing blood, still stung back then. He didn't flinch when he met with the ragtag group in a semi-official setting at Wilmod's Camp, but he did allow himself to reminisce later, "I knew of an Amell once..." - the lopsided smile, the curious expression, the tendency to judge and make decisions based upon the people and not the ideal, the prowess in battle, the horrid and often ill-timed sense of humor...

Perhaps 'suffer' is a bit too strong of a word. The presence of Hawkes in Kirkwall brought back the familiar sense of longing that he had harbored immediately after he heard the news that Amell had been conscripted by the Grey Wardens. After the circle nearly broke, that longing turned quickly to anger at her unwillingness to purge the tower of mages. When she left for the last time, talking quietly to First Enchanter Irving about allowing a dwarf into those bleak walls, he couldn't even bear to look at her, not when all he could see was supple breasts decorated with golden chains, a feminine hips scantily clothed, black eyes - Desire wearing her face, a head adorned with curling horns.

Ten years has passed since his ill-begotten comments to that woman, ten years of painful recovery. Initially, with the blood stains still unwashed from the walls and floors of the tower, he was inundated in nightmares and unpredictable fluxes of brutality toward his charges that forced Knight Commander Gregoir to transfer him to Kirkwall. There, he clenched onto Meredith Stannard's stance on mage-templar relations like a lifeline: a harsh stance of unremitting vigilance and harsh measures were necessary for the safety of all. He had agreed with her until the very end until he could not longer ignore how her insanity has completely taken her. The knowledge that templars, people that he had looked up to as a child, the Order that he had sworn into, could be just as corrupt and as terrible, was as bitter pill to swallow. Tainted power was not only reserved to mages.

There is a red lyrium statue greeting all who enters Kirkwall through the Gallows depicting a woman on her knees looking towards the skies. There is a rumor that one could still hear her scream but only if one ventures close enough. No one dares. It was the last thing he saw before he boarded the ship out of the city.

He was not the same man that Amell had known before she joined the wardens, neither was he the same man that Amell had known when she returned to save the Circle. There was an unsettling dichotomy within him - circling dual forces of fondness and conflict that was morphing into a restless energy that he needed to release, growing within him since Cassandra has sent ahead a messenger to assemble the Inquisition's advisors. He was an active man by nature and he was languishing in the war room, pacing anxiously, drawing a raised eyebrow from the Ambassador and a knowing look from Sister Nightingale (not that she was any more dignified: Amell was an old friend of hers too and it was easy to see her impatience in the way she kept tapping her writing utensil against the clipboard). A part of him preferred to be outside, supervising his men and working on troop assignments as per his role as Commander but the other part of him was... Not dreading, but anticipating.

The door flew open. Seeker Cassandra stroll purposefully into the chamber, muttering darkly under her breath about Chancellor Roderick and his definition of heretics. Amell drifted in behind her like a personal shadow, seemly distracted by her own thoughts, a small shift of fabrics, the absence of sound of shoes padding along the stone floors, and the sudden pungent scent of embrium and elfroot announced her presence, her gait sluggish yet elegant, resembling the Dalish that roam the forests. Years of traversing the wilds had added noticeable fluidity to the way she moves. Varric was right: she looked tired - faded bruises peeked out underneath her collar; her eyes were lined with dark circles that contrasted sharply with the tattoos on her face.

Cassandra's voice washed over the individuals in the chamber in high and low cadences, the lilting Nevarran accent punctuated some syllables and soared over others. The Seeker still had scratches that came from the original explosion at the Conclave and the resulting battle to stall the growth of the Breach. Her strong gestures towards each member of the Inquisition was given with deference; her eyes offered a clear view of her fatigue - consequences from the death of the Divine had accelerated at an unprecedented rate. More and more reports from trustworthy scouts scattered across the continent gave disheartening accounts on how Thedas shifted to accommodate the self-proclaimed Inquisition and... Well... Chancellor Roderick was a pup with no teeth compared to the greater powers in Orlais that participated in the Great Game.

"Cullen?"

Her eyes (there was no demon lurking beneath them) focused on his face, flitting across his features, searching for something in his expression. She stood less than an arm's length away, stunned into temporary muteness. He took a moment to drink in her appearance: her hair was cut to her shoulders, held back by weaved pieces of string and ribbons, she was leaner than he remembered, musculature resulting from countless combat experiences. He took her hand into his: there were callouses that indicated an individual who not only used a staff but also one who used a great sword. Cullen tried to imagine the situation from her end: arrested as a murderer, raised to the position of Herald - and realizing that she was found by old faces in the Inquisition. They stood on unequal ground. He had an entire night, sleepless that it was in his anxiety, to prepare for this meeting; she had not.

Amell's gaze continued to wander, assessing his stance and posture. "Is it really you?" She murmured, expression absent of any loathing. It was at that moment that he realized that she was waiting for his reaction. Ten years had passed since his ill-begotten comments to her; ten years of wondering if he still hated her. Cullen swallowed; that was something he can work with.

Smiling, fighting the urge to rub his neck, he gently squeezed her hand and struggled not to stammer through his words, "I look forward to seeing what we can do together, Ame- Herald."

Those words, not enough to convey his apologies, desires, and a hundred thousand of other emotions that he wished for her to know, were sufficient for the moment. She relaxed her posture and happily acknowledged his optimism. The blood pounding in his ears obscured her reply but... she was smiling (the same one she offered him when she had passed him in the halls as an apprentice) at him. Amell's hand slipped out of his grasp as she turned back to the war table, prodding at one of the pieces inquiringly; Sister Leliana stepped forward to begin the briefing.

The charged tension in the air dissipated; the connection between them broke - leaving him feeling momentarily bereft. At the edge of his periphery, he noticed Ambassador Josephine Montilyet staring avidly at him like he was currently the most interesting specimen in the room before she was drawn into the conversation. He ducked his head as he felt heat creeping up his cheeks, busying himself with his own reports. Seeker Cassandra scoffed at a suggestion that Amell made that had Sister Leliana uncharacteristically laughing under her breath.

Among the dim light offered by the candles, under the auspices of the will of the war council, the structure of the Inquisition slowly began to take shape.

"_Into darkness, unafraid."_

The clamor of people bartering for goods, the ring in the air as metal struck against metal, the scent of meat being cooked over the fires - Commander Cullen rubbed his forehead as he witnessed two recruits collapse onto the icy grounds as they simultaneously lost their footing. For the time being, he'll let Cassandra correct their technique since she's more inclined to aim the blunt side of her shield at any offending knees that were just an inch out of alignment than yelling out advice from across the field. The sun was disappearing behind the Frostback Mountains, leaving a myriad of shades of reds, oranges, purples streaking across the sky - the meeting had taken the entire day. A servant was brought in at one point with a plate of small sandwiches, but that seemed like ages ago. His own notes from the meeting spanned five pages in cramped handwriting.

* * *

"Telling the public that you are not only the proclaimed Herald but also the Hero of Ferelden would benefit the Inquisition," Josephine had tapped her pen on her cheek in thought, "your accomplishments are not easily forgotten. Saving Ferelden from the Fifth Blight is no small feat."

"I can send messengers to Alistair," Leliana had added, a hip propped against the edge of the table, "Backing from a King would help us on our path to recognition, favor, and legitimacy. Not that Orlesian Chantry really cares about Ferelden politics - its a start." The spymaster made a moue as she scribbled out a small note and set it aside, next to the piece that sat on the north-east corner of the map.

"That's the most you're going to get out of having me, I'm afraid." Amell had sighed, twirling a small feather absentmindedly through her fingers. "My influence is not as high as you would think and especially does not have the far reaches of what the late Divine believed."

Cassandra had frowned, "But as Warden Commander of Ferelden, you should be able to mobilize your troops." She gestured downward to piece that marked the location of Amaranthine, "Sister Leliana could not find you at the arling but you must have at least spent some of the last ten years building up the Grey Wardens. What we are fighting are not darkspawn but I doubt that there are many things higher in priority than tears in the veil separating this world from the Fade."

"Oh, believe me, I would if I could." laughing hollowly, the mage fidgeted, straightening her collar, playing with the map pieces, unwilling to look at any of the advisors in the eye, "The problem is, well, to put it bluntly, that the Wardens are dying." Silence pierced the room: shocked silence, inquiring silence, accusatory silence, demanding silence. Amell closed her eyes and kneaded the skin between her eyes, "I'll start again, since this is most likely relevant to the crisis on hand. A few months ago, I received a missive from Warden Commander Larius from the Vimmark Mountains who warned me of some radical notions made by senior warden Janeka. She was searching for the blood descendants of one Malcolm Hawke."

"Hawke? Why would the Wardens be looking for Hawke?" Cullen muttered, eyeing Cassandra as her scowl deepened.

Slowly a story had begun to unfold: a letter from a Commander of the Grey believed to be dead, a pursuit from the Waking Sea all the way to Haven that yielded not clues but destruction, a false Calling which timing matched the disappearance of a notable darkspawn that was locked in the Warden prison tower, suspicious connections between persons of interest from too different backgrounds to be coincidental. There was an undercurrent of grim determination in the war room as the inhabitants recognized that their common enemy, whatever they knew of him/her/it was only beginning to scratch the surface.

* * *

Suddenly, there was a significant drop in volume in the commotion on the battlements; men and women paused in their training and turned toward his direction, some pointing and whispering. He turned around. Amell was descending from the main gates, taking two steps at a time, sparing a glance toward the smithy, the stables, the wild nugs, and view of the frozen lake. He nodded to her as she jogged over to his side, uncaring of the curious looks they drew. "I didn't expect to see you again," she greeted, "I always thought that if we were to ever meet again, it would be on opposite sides on a hill of swords." Amell's smile was strained as as she referenced the Mage-Templar War that still ravaged the lands throughout Thedas, "There were rumors, afterwards, that you've gone mad, slayed three apprentices, and fled the Order. I'm glad it wasn't that. It's nice to see you again, Cullen."

"The Maker has watched over you, Amell," he replied, reaching up to brush some strands of hair out of her face out of habit, before letting the offending hand drop as he suddenly was made aware of the number of eyes still trained upon them by the growing chatter. She ducked her head, but not before he could see a blush creeping across her facial tattoos. "I," He coughed, struggling to regain his professional bearing, "these past events must be trying for you. You're not too overwhelmed, are you?"

She tilted her head back but still avoided his direct gaze, a grimace replacing her smile, "I won't lie. I've been better. The Calling, you see, I'm scared that its getting stronger despite Flemeth's amulet blocking off the worst," she gestured at the pendant resting just beneath her collarbone, reflecting ethereal light that seemed to come from an inner source, steadily leaking ancient power. "I might need to ask Solas but I think the mark of the rift is making me more susceptible though it seems to be stopped by some amount of will power - which the Inquisition helps me with - it offers a sense of purpose to do some good in this world..." Rubbing her head, she stepped back and nervously began drawing small circles into the dirt with her toe. "I digress. I'm still heavily medicated. Sorry that you had to listen to all that."

"I enjoyed this talk," Cullen hurriedly responded, "I mean," His hand crept to the back of his neck, "It would be nice if we can do this again sometime when you're better. If you ever need someone to talk to... As a friend, of course. I'm always here."

Her eyes widened, "I don't..." She chewed anxiously on her bottom lip, bringing a hand up to tug at stray strands of her hair, "Cullen. I'm not forcing you into accepting-"

"Amell, I want to," He grabbed her shoulders (careful, she was still recovering), willing her to understand, "As... I understand that it's been ten years. We are both different people from the templar and the apprentice at Kinloch Hold, Maker, we are both Commanders, but I hope that we can rekindle... I mean, rebuild our friendship." (There's still so much work to do. The Inquisition demands so much of his time. But the path is already set and his feelings are an eventuality, no matter how much he tries to concentrate on his role in the organization. And maybe this time around, when he does fall in love with her again, if it has not already happened, hopefully he will not fall too fast and maybe she'll... She'll...) "We can catch up whenever you're ready, when you come back. Over chess?" He hesitantly asked and he dared not hope, because if she can give him even this much...

"Herald! We are departing!" Seeker Cassandra called out, a solid shield gleaming in the sunlight strapped to her back. She was carrying a selection of swords and loading them onto the caravan with a furrow in her brow. Varric emerged from the gate polishing his beloved crossbow. The elven Hedge mage was securing the fastenings of his staff, squinting at the sun as if trying to determine the time.

Amell placed her hands over his and gently eased his grip off of her, "I would like that," She remarked, a hazy smile, a twinkle in her eye that was visible despite drowsiness from the many herbal remedies she had imbibed. The southern tower sounded the horn; a great procession arrived to see the party off. The quest was suspected to last a few days to a few weeks, depending on the resources found and reception that the Herald receives there. Offering one last salute, the mage stepped back and ran towards the expedition team. He watched as her figure slowly grew smaller as she increased her speed with Fade Steps, leaving behind faint impressions in the air with every spell, until he could not decipher her from the silhouettes of her fellow men as they slowly marched to the western parts of the Hinterlands to search for Mother Giselle.

**Varric**

She walked like someone who isn't used to paved roads, conjuring memories of Daisy working in and around the Kirkwall Alienage the month right after her self-exile from her clan. It was hard to believe that the only figure that Hawke (sarcastic, free-spirited, stubborn Hawke) had at one point idolized the distant Hero of Ferelden cousin. It was even harder to believe that their resemblance, both inner and outer, were so canny, despite them having never met. Their hair was a similar blue-black shade, their eyes were the same light gray in shape and degree of vivacity, they had the same lopsided smile. Not only that, they both had the same terrible sense of humor and the rather blase view of the world that sought to shock and awe them by throwing them into increasingly impossible situations. Hawke would be amused to learn that the Warden Commander was essentially him in a slighter, more feminine body. Varric attempted to mentally conjure a tale where Hawke becomes a warden and saving all of Ferelden from the Fifth Blight. Hawke would probably leave behind a trail of dead, dazed, and confused, shaking the world down to its noble roots, which, now that Varric thought about it, was probably what the Herald had done.

Which would explain the double-takes that he kept seeing Knight Captain Cullen give Hawke whenever the group was wandering around the Gallows all those years ago. Varric continued to ponder, tapping his chin with a crossbow bolt as the memories, bittersweet yet comforting, continued to summon themselves. The rumors rampant in Kirkwall about the Knight Captain's illicit history with the mage warden were, as he had believed, too fantastical, too harlequin romantic to be true - and yet Varric's eyes do not deceive him - he has seen the shattered glass and the past shadows of a shattered heart. Granted, there had to be a reason why Knight Commander Meredith punished anyone who talked about the supposed affair within the Templar Order if not for the degree of truth in the gossip. Varric would have given his manuscript of the latest chapter of _Swords and Shields_ to get a look into the war room when they reunited. Maybe Ruffles will be willing to part with the information. Maybe the mage in question would be willing to answer his inquiries.

Varric glanced back and... His brow furrowed in confusion.

Happily humming a simple tune (Curly hummed the same song when he's in a particular mood), Amell sat on the back of the last wagon above a canvas that covered their total camping supplies, running a whetstone over the edge of a standard issued Ferelden sword. "Two questions, Herald" She looked up, startled at the sudden break in silence, "Didn't you have a staff with you when we were at the Breach? And do you have a spare weapon kit on you?"

"Huh. You're the first one to ask me that." She confided with a quirk in her lips, tucking the sword back into its scabbard and wiping her hands on her mail, "Here. I suppose congratulations are in order, as well as a prize. All I have on me that I'm willing to part is an unused pocket handkerchief. You're not missing your entire kit, I hope. I would loose faith in your abilities." Mockingly serious, she offered said handkerchief with an outstretched hand, light blue with little golden embroidered flowers at the corners, which was not at the quality of his own oilcloth that he had lost some hours back in the mountains but just as well (and she had undoubtedly noticed that and his boredom).

He plucked the offending piece of cloth out from her fingers with a bemused nod of thanks, dabbed some polisher onto it, and rubbed down Bianca for what it seems to be the fifth time today. Surface dwarf that he was, he was still a dwarf, and dwarves needed to be kept from idleness. "I thought that mages using swords are about as common as a templar using a staff." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Cassandra lead the group, peering into the thick undergrowth in search for signs of life. She barked orders at a handful of men who saluted her and dove ahead. "I'm surprised Seeker hasn't asked yet."

"Probably because Leliana told her a long time ago back when they were still looking for little old me," Amell mused as she fell back against the pile, sighing as she craned her neck back to stare at the foliage above her, "And Solas would already know."

"Elf mages know how to fight with swords?" As he tested Bianca's automatic spring loads (still a bit stiff, maybe it was the humidity that was affecting the wood), Varric tried to imagine Daisy effortlessly swinging around Hayder's Razor and failed miserably.

"The dead art of the Arcane Warrior was once known among the elves," flicking a wrist, Amell held out an arm that began to glow, tracing a white lined pattern that crawled and spread, not unlike that of Broody's lyrium veins. "By pumping magic through your muscles you get warrior like qualities: augmented strength, ability to wield unwieldy swords. Since I lost my favorite dragonbone staff at the explosion at the Conclave, no other staff would compare to the ease of combat with an actual sword... Though I left all of my best swords with Nathaniel... Huh, I guess I could ask the Inquisition to send a letter," she trailed off, staring thoughtfully at her fingertips as they emitted small sparks of lightning.

He waited patiently while inwardly counting to ten (she had the habit of falling asleep mid conversation - he chalked it up to the fact that she was still healing) and then prompted her, "It's not dead if there's at least one user out there. Can Chuckles do the same?"

"I don't think so; you don't see him with anything sharp and pointy on him." Amell swung her legs idly over the edge, "I found a phylactery in the Lower Brecillian Ruins when I was trying to broker peace or a ceasefire between werewolves and elves, back when I was still trying to mobilize troops during the Blight." She said that in the same tone that Hawke usually used whenever he announced that he was going out to Hightown Market to buy armor upgrades and came back instead covered in spider remains. "It's actually pretty similar to being a Knight Enchanter from Orlais, I heard. But I like to think that I'm better than any run-of-the-mill Orlesian mage." She fell back to humming the same tune from prior; her rise and fall in tone matched that of the drifting wind around them. Varric continued to calibrate his crossbow's scope and checked the cross hairs for accuracy, fingers moving around with nothing to guide them but muscle memory.

The dwarf rubbed his hands together, trying to force some heat into his fingertips. The Hinterlands were unforgiving in the winter, even during midday, especially when one spent the whole day doing nothing but walking and resting on the caravans. It was a far cry from Kirkwall and its polarized sectors of rich and poor. It was far cry from Sundermount and its lack of vegetation. He sighed - another day, another fight, another apocalyptic scenario - at least the people were nice... somewhat.

A small rustling sound caught his attention; Amell had reached into her pack and pulled out a familiar looking book. Slowly drifting off into her own world, she murmured softly as she read, but he could easily make out the words - familiar in content, how could they not be? He wrote the book. He considered gifting her the entire series for her; she clearly uses the books as a way to take the edge off from the expectations that the Haven pilgrims and worshippers have placed on her shoulders.

Donnen Brennokovic didn't stand on ceremony. He strode through the barracks and slammed open the door to the captain's office without so much as a nod to the guards he passed.

Just barely dawn, and already Captain Hendallen was buried beneath a mountain of paperwork taller than the Vinmarks. All Donnen could see of the captain was her fiery hair and an angry gaze that had stopped more than one pickpocket mid-grift.

"Captain, I need a warrant for the Comte de Favre." Even as the words left his lips, Donnen knew they were a mistake.

The Captain rose to her feet. "Brennokovic." The way she spoke his name was like a portcullis slamming shut. "Where's my report on the Hightown Market body?" It was the kind of question you might ask a truant child, the kind where you already knew the answer and just wanted to see someone squirm in guilt.

The Herald's mabari returned from their trail, bounding over a few boulders before stopping at her feet with a mouthful of royal elfroot, dripping with drool but still usable if Adan didn't adamantly complain. Amell carefully extracted the herbs, praising him as he settled down at the edge of the wagon, curled up and slowly drifted off to sleep. She gave the mabari one last sad look. Despite his past prowess in battle, he was a canvas of battle scars, of unhealed wounds new and old - he was barely battle ready anymore, especially after the fight with the Pride Demon, and had retired from a weapon to a faithful companion.

"Rogue templars ahead!" Cassandra shouted from the front as the caravan froze in its tracks. Flashes of blue steel and war cries distinguished themselves from the ambient lights and sounds of nature. "Hold your ground! Everyone capable of fighting, to me! Varric, covering fire!" The mabari snuffled in his slumber, uncaring of the imminent fight ahead. Amell was already standing from her perch, tucking _Hard in Hightown_ back into her satchel and drawing her sword. Her eyes glittered: a little dark, a little blood thirsty.

"Andraste's flaming sword," cursing, he readied Bianca, taking comfort in the smooth transition sounds of gears sliding into place and the promise of pinpoint precision, "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Seems like they need you up there. Time to put your money where your mouth is, Herald," he said, sliding a bolt in place.

"I'll cut them down so quickly they won't even have time to activate a Spell Purge," Amell giddily laughed as the sword begins to glow, a dull scent of ozone permeating the area as her magic manifested, "Feast your eyes, Varric Tethras." And she leaped headfirst into the skirmish.


	3. Chapter 3

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Cullen**

It was by the fourth time that he visited her in her cottage that she started developing the habit of preparing another mug of hot tea beside her own, making sure that it was extra strong. "I would stop you since it can't be good for your health," Amell shrugged as she refilled his drink, "but that would make me a hypocrite," she gestured towards the rest of her living space which was so cluttered that not even the floorboards were visible. Tomes on magic, the past Blights, and the Fade stood in one corner like a makeshift fortress that children often play in. (Laying guiltily on top of the drawer is a well-leafed through copy of the latest _Hard in Hightown_.) A large map of Ferelden and Orlais covered up an entire wall decorated with pins, notes, writings, string, and the occasional dagger thrown in frustration. Various staves and swords leaned haphazardly against the dresser. Covering every surface were reports gathered from the war table, each in a different state of revision and rewrites.

Cullen picked one up and skimmed it. He recognized his own handwriting, suggesting more men to travel to Val Royeaux as a show of force against the remaining Chantry dissenters that did not support the Inquisition. Further underneath are proposals made by Lady Josephine and Sister Nightingale. Diplomacy, secrets, or forces? Which missions required a heavy hand? Which needed the gentle touch? A noise of frustration caused him to look up; he watched as she attempted to bring the flames in the fireplace back to life with a stick and some magic, trying not to overfeed the embers. "Still having problems with control after all these years?" He sat down and leafed through the reports that she had set aside for him to take.

She flushed, "yes," she admitted without glancing back, "but I am better-" and yelped when a burst of fire erupted under her hands, scrambling backwards with a hand clutching at her shirt. Slowly, the kettle hanging above from the mantle began to whistle. She stood with the remains of her dignity and dusted off her pants. A small smile crept into the corners of his mouth and he tried his hardest not to laugh.

Instead, he took a sip from his cup, reveling in the warm heat as it traveled down to his core, feeling warmer as he turned his gaze toward the frosted windows. The scythe moon encased the grounds outside in a low blue glow. The snowfall was heavier than the previous evenings; the refugees and recruits of Haven have all sequestered themselves into groups, some into their tents and houses, others into the Chantry and the tavern. Songs of the holy, songs of the raucous, all drifting through one another, creating a cacophony of humanness. Hope. As she searched through her pile of reports, Amell hummed a small tune that he recognized from his life a decade ago. Her mabari slept soundly in the corner and snuffled when she nudged him to get at some of the documents underneath.

It took four visits to her cottage before she relaxed in his presence, absolutely certain that he wasn't suffering by seeing her. He wanted to tell her that it was not her: the fear had never came from her (though regrettably it took him years to realize that), the fault laid with the desire demon. But that spoken sentiment would lead to the topic of Uldred and his rebellion of which he was still not ready to talk about. So he tried to convey companionship, camaraderie, maybe a chance of something more, through his actions. It had gone as well as he could hope for. Cullen sighed and lost himself to his thoughts.

In Kinloch Hold, templars gossiped as much as mages - given enough time in close quarters, the brotherhood established was one that inevitably turns able-bodied men in their prime into grandmothers of a knitting circle. Topics varied from Knight Commander Gregoir's recent changes in training regimens to the headcook's bright idea to utilize whatever uncommon ingredient of the day into their evening meals to who can bribe the quartermaster to give up some of his more upgraded equipment. Of course, as a group of men either single or away from their families, all conversations had eventually gravitated to the provocative. Which Chantry sister would be most willing to offer the unspoken set of services? Which mage would succumb to the idea of a forbidden love? (Petra, the apprentice healer of senior mage Wynne, was a frequent favorite: her appeal was a loving smile and a warm hand filled with soothing magic that could relieve any pain. It was hard not to get too attached to her.) Shared fantasies barely replaced the physical urges and hunger for another warm body beside them in bed.

But no one had talked about Amell that way. As a recruit, Cullen had often wondered why, at least until his patrols began to match her own schedule.

She had, even at a young age, been a bit too wild in her casting, a bit too powerful, and a bit too avid in her pursuit of knowledge for the templars to relax around her. Her coloring was a bit too exotic. Her socials skills a bit out of the norm and it had set her apart from her peers. She wasn't alone though. She had Jowan. And later, a few years before her Harrowing, after the incident, she had him.

"Cullen?" Amell voice, suddenly very close, jolting him out of his thoughts. She had folded herself into a chair directly across from him, one hand clenching onto a steaming cup of tea as she slowly blew at the surface. Tendrils of steam rose and unfurled. An index finger tapped on a folded letter that sat on the table between them and pushed it towards him: an unspoken invitation, "How well do you know Hawke? You were in Kirkwall together, right?"

"Yes, but we were not close." He opened the letter. The Amell crest greeted him in the upper right hand corner: scrawled handwriting, multiple words written, crossed out, and rewritten, a voice that was half respect and half sass introduced himself as a second cousin and The Champion of Kirkwall. (As a gesture of goodwill, Hawke had already tracked down and destroyed her phylactery, a mere formality due to her position in the Grey Wardens.) News of the Inquisition must be spreading quickly if Hawke, a man on the run and eluding just about every seeker and templar roaming the lands, found out that his cousin was the Herald. "I've worked with him a few times prior to the Circle Rebellion. You would probably get more stories from Varric."

She ran a hand through her hair and sighed in frustration, "I did. Varric told me of the one-on-one duel with the Arishok and how he earned the title of Champion. Did you know that Hawke ran figure eights between the pillars endlessly for hours dodging the Arishok's attacks, only stopping occasionally to send out a Winter's Grasp? Truth is stranger than fiction, I guess," She idly traced small patterns into the grain of the table before flicking her wrist at the letter, "But that is where his stories end. I want to know afterwards: life as a Champion, before the rebellion. Maybe figuring out why it happened can help me figure out how to stop it. I want to know how he influenced the tensions between the Order and the Circle without being a part of either. But Varric wouldn't budge and his books aren't detailed enough. I just," she raised her shoulders and then dropped them, "thought maybe another perspective would help."

He leaned over his mug, silent as he contemplated the city and the twisted perceptions of its people. "It was not a pleasant time," he began, deliberate and careful in his words, "Tensions then were rising. Blood magic was practiced within the Gallows; at the same time, templars advocated the Rite of Tranquility upon anyone they deemed suspicious. Both sides were at fault. Hawke did the best he could. My opinion is that no one could've stopped the rebellion from starting." She turned away, staring outside as the wind continues to slap against the glass panes, flexing her fingers as cold seeped back into her extremities. He debated whether to offer her his coat but pushed the thought aside: at where they are at this moment, she might run, winter storm or not. Maker, she was still beautiful.

She released a long breath, "I suppose I should be grateful, not to be a part of that horror." She propped her elbows on the table; she was so close he could smell faint traces of embrium and magic. Shaking his head, Cullen leaned back and closed his eyes, envisioning an alternate universe where she could've easily been under the mentorship of First Enchanter Orsino instead of First Enchanter Irving, living in fear of Knight Commander Meredith. He tried to imagine her tranquil, because with her temperament and her talent, even if she had done no harm, she would've been one of the first to undergo the Rite under Ser Alrik's solution. He tried to imagine the symbol of the Chantry on her forehead, dead grey eyes, a monotonous voice, unable to feel the passion that had defined her character. He swallowed dryly and clenched his hands tightly. She didn't notice his agony as she continued to muse, "There were stories circulating from the mages that were conscripted into the wardens. 'In Kirkwall, it was better dead than tranquil,' they told me. But I could hardly imagine..." She turned back, stricken from the possibilities of what could have been, and placed a hand over his - he did not move away, "Cullen, did you..."

"No," he managed to choke out, his own voice distant from his ears. "But that was a bad time for me. I'm not proud of that part of me. Amell, the way that I saw mages... I'm not sure I would have done if I had seen you." He could feel the heat of the fire at the back of his neck and the warmth of their joined fingers. His voice descended into a whisper, that despite the ambient noises from the fire, from her own breath, from the world outside, were clear and true, "And that thought scares me."

**Vivienne**

The double doors of the Haven Chantry opened, revealing a dark interior, decor that hasn't seen proper light or a good cleaning in years. It smelled stale from old mothballs. Dust littered the high ends of the upholstery. At best, the area was the symbolic stronghold of the Inquisition, no matter how poorly constructed it was for that purpose. It wasn't the chateau of Duke Bastien de Ghislain but it was manageable - given some time, effort, and imported goods, she could make a little part of it hers. The high ceilings were comforting to her, unlike the small cottages littering the grounds around Haven - cozy, but not one was fitted to her standards.

Though used to leading, Madame Vivienne stood a ways back behind both the Herald and the newest addition, a young elven archer with no understanding of manners, as they walked through the halls, garnering curious looks from the gossipers that sought to seek some shelter from the winds outside. There hadn't been enough time between offering her services to the Herald and the present where Ambassador Montilyet has finally procured the necessary documents that officiated their stay as members of the Inquisition under the Herald's command and were available in her office to be collected for the Orlesian mage to inspect and judge. Vivienne needed more time to observe, to make her inferences and character evaluations before she could confidently maneuver and fit herself into the Herald's inner circle.

"So," Sera sidled up to the Herald, casually bumping shoulders, "normal human, normal looking - you'd expect something bigger when hearing the stories."

"Sorry to disappoint," her voice, laced with mild humor, was low and soft when not seeking attention from others: a habit most likely ingrained into her during her time at the Circle when close proximity to her peers did not require raised tones. "What would you have expected me to be?"

Sera shrugged, a pointed ear twitched in agitation, "Dunno. When I say Hero of Ferelden and Herald of Andraste, what should I think?"

It was a question that puzzled all of Thedas. Vivienne could recall with great clarity the gossip between nobles ten years ago. Many members of the court had agreed to wait for the Blight to decimate Ferelden before sending in their own men and women, believing that with Ferelden weakened, Empress Celene could annex the lands and expand her reach and influence over the barbaric dog lovers. The response to the news that the Fifth Blight was stopped nearly single handedly by a pair of Grey Wardens was immediate denial. Some scholars thought that the Ferelden Wardens did not fight a true Blight. Still, others pointed out that the outcome of the Battle of Denerim relied upon the slaying of the Archdemon, an entity whose presence defines a Blight.

"Well, you're Ferelden and I'm Ferelden and I heard that Commander what's-his-name is Ferelden and a lot of recruits are from Ferelden," Sera announced in her halting style of speech, linking arms with her declared new friend, "we should all get together and smell like wet dog. Wicked Grace later, yeah?"

Though the Herald is culturally Ferelden, Vivienne refused to allow who could possibly be the next holy icon to be swayed and influenced by a city elf who belonged in a group that believed dropping jars of bees on nobles' heads was the height of hilarity. "Lady Amell can trace her lineage back to a noble family in Kirkwall," Vivienne icily stated. The Herald certainly did not look Ferelden. Black hair in itself is a rare trait seen in the south. Black hair and grey eyes? Anyone who had lessons in the nobility class of Thedas knew that the combination was due to Amell blood.

"Doesn't mean that she is raised by your people, Vivvy," Sera leaned back, using the Herald's arm as a point of leverage, to turn and stick out her tongue, "During the Blight, she helped the little people in Denerim. I know. I was there." Which was a bit of a stretch. Judging by the elf's age, she was but a child ten years ago and would be hard-pressed to remember any details, most likely shielded in her mother's bosom from the harsh battles outside where armies slayed the darkspawn. But that comment was enough to pique Warden Amell's curiosity, who turned and asked her questions of her upbringing. Sera basked in the attention while Vivienne retreated back to her thoughts, pondering upon the state of the world that lived past the Blight.

Even the stories of the wardens post-Blight proved to be too outlandish for many Orlesians to believe but the results left in their wake proved to make those claims undeniable. After taking his place on the throne as King of Ferelden, Alistair Theirin killed an Antivan prince and defeated a Tevinter magister with only a handful of companions, one rumoring to be the Arishok. Warden Amell, a mage who was speculated to have struck the killing blow to the Archdemon, quickly reformed a dying Arling into a city to be feared in its own right. Though it seemed that she had a less exciting life than her counterpart, many keen admirers found a pattern in her long excursions outside of Amaranthine: simply put, when she ventured out of reach, strange things happened in Thedas - a revolution, the sudden rebuild of an abandoned Keep, sudden disquiet in what seemed to be an inevitable war between feuding families, men, women, rogues, warriors, and mages all disappeared after being personally conscripted by the Commander of the Grey, only to come back years later with strength that one had to experience to believe. For the latter, more rumors surrounded her than actual facts - compared to the king, she was an outright enigma and the Great Game favors enigmas.

"I got a toy, a painted box when I was little," Sera continued, "from the Friends of Red Jenny. They said that you gave it to them." Noble stories, fantastical stories, stories of humble origin - the Hero of Ferelden has gain a plethora of them and no one but her knew which was right and which was wrong. As Sera chatted, Vivienne managed to catch Lady Amell's eye from behind and to her surprised delight, received a small bow, more than an inclination of her head, but not bold enough to be noticed by their third party member.

'We'll talk later,' said the gesture. Feeling pleased, Madame Vivienne gathered her robes about her and swept away towards the office of Lady Ambassador. The warden did know minor rules pertaining to the Great Game; she was not wholly uncivilized like the rest of Ferelden - and she might have some potential in her to appear in court. Sister Nightingale did predict an inevitable meeting between the Empress and the Inquisition in a formal setting, under the prying eyes of those in power. With proper training, the Herald will not embarrass the organization. Madame Vivienne left, assured that Lady Amell will find her later and that, in a more proper setting, they will talk.

Surely not all the stories of her were true. It was completely preposterous: the time lines of the tales easily overlapped, and sometimes, the facts directly contradicted each other. Years swept by. The fervor and adoration had died out eventually like a smothered wildfire as people moved onto more interesting pieces of gossip (the Champion of Kirkwall rose to prominence at around this time).

And just as her narrative seems to come to a close, as time passed and her accomplishments withdrew into the distant memory, the Hero of Ferelden emerged into the public as the Herald of Andraste. Was this the will of the Maker? Was she handpicked by the prophet? There was no answer. There was only more questions.

**Amell**

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow."

Amell frowned, tapping a finger against her arm as she interjected impatiently, "In their blood, the Maker's will is written,"

Mother Giselle could not contain her surprise; the usual composed mien was disrupted by a faint widening of her eyes. There was no need to be surprised. Mages of the Circle had the chant drilled into them starting from their induction - endless hours before the banner of the Chantry and the towering statue of Andraste, a row of templars behind them, vigilant as if the mere words of the Maker could vanish away their magic and removed that ingrained sin. The place of worship was a place of reluctance among the apprentices and a place of either resentment or reverence among the Harrowed - depending on whether the life long conversion was successful or not, depending on whether said mage really believed.

Leliana was fully aware that Amell did not, could not, would not contain even a fraction of Wynne's spiritual leanings and had most likely forewarned the Chantry woman so she wouldn't get too offended. Perhaps she was shocked because of the hostility emitted when the words were recited. "Benedictions 4:11. They sound rather nice, don't they, Revered Mother?" Amell leaned back against the stone column, a candlelight on either side hanging from a vertical surface, "little pretty words decorating a banner of heaven - controlling a magical population through fear and mage hunters." Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she deflated from her previous crossness. Mother Giselle is a nice woman; Amell had met plenty of good and bad people in the Chantry and it wouldn't be fair to paint such a broad brush over them, especially when mages tended to take extreme ends of the spectrum.

Minaeve strolled past with an armful of fangs and spirit essences. Madame Vivienne, sequestered in her little niche of the Haven Chantry, was penning some letters to members of the Orlesian court. Mother Giselle's hand rested on her arm, over her restless hand, "Oh child, what has the world done to you?" Their debate over Chantry reformation was forgotten in the face of whatever the elder woman had seen in her eyes - opaque bitterness and grim thoughts that did not come naturally to her but was a necessary and inevitable result of the last decade.

Amell had no words, so she settled for smiling in a faintly apologetic manner until the Chantry woman gave her space. She has a twisted relationship with the Chant of Light. The rhythmic trance of the verses used to lull her to sleep on the bench until a senior mage slapped her wrists with the blunt end of a staff. They were catechisms. They were poetry. They reminded her of a time when all she had to worry about was friends, keeping Jowan in line, and learning the secrets of magic. Maybe that's why she still guiltily reads the Chant after her worst moments, to regain that feeling of a carefree Amell staring at the ceiling of Kinloch Hold, wondering what stars looked like, and maybe the words are still a comfort like a blanket in the darkness, and maybe the Maker does love her in the same way that he loves non-mages.

The incident at Val Royeaux still rankled, like small bugs crawling lightly over her skin. The Templars have dismissed any idea of allying with the Inquisition. Lord Seeker Lucius has, according to Cassandra, gone mad, and Grand Enchanter Fiona (the woman looked awfully familiar... Have they ever met before?) had extended an invitation to Redcliffe. Amell had accepted the proposal for an alliance but there was something missing and that intuition had not stopped prodding at her sixth sense since then. The situation was off, like uneven scales, somewhere, somehow - the offer seemed false in pretense but she couldn't place her finger down on why or how. Was she being paranoid?

A hand went up to rub at her face; she felt nearly faint from exhaustion - the Calling becomes more powerful when she is in this weakened state. (Leliana pushed the tentative meeting with the rebel mages a week back; Amell could kiss her out of happiness.) It was not paranoia as much as an ingrained sense of survival instincts - one could never ignore those; she had learned that the hard way these past ten years.

(Maker, her head hurts.)

How things have changed since the Blight... How everyone has changed since the Blight... Alistair is, between her and Queen Anora's stubborn determination that required long, long nights of lectures and copious amounts of whiskey, a decent king, a good king. Leliana is a far cry from the lay sister and bard who had a weakness for dancing shoes and stared unabashedly at Morrigan's cleavage. Cullen is not... Amell winced.

* * *

"Don't touch me! Stay away! Sifting through my thoughts... Tempting me with the only thing I always wanted but could never have... Using my shame against me... My ill advised infatuation with her... A mage, of all things."

"You are a mage and I, a templar. It is my duty to oppose you and all you are."

"Only mages have that much power at their fingertips. Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demon."

* * *

The door to the Ambassador's office opened. Both she and Mother Giselle turned toward the newcomers before latter was distracted by a refugee asking for a blessing. (As if her thoughts had called for him,) Cullen emerged with some folders tucked under an arm, smiling as he greeted her; Lady Montilyet followed. Dressed in bold colors and fine silks, the woman did not fit in with the overall worn and hardened atmosphere of Haven - there was an air about her of faint nobility, diplomatic nobility, and something that brought back to mind a younger, more innocent Leliana. "Ah, the Herald of Andraste," she carried a bundle of letters and an oddly shaped, hefty package, "Two Grey Warden related messages arrived hours ago."

Amell's eyes flickered over to meet hers, "If any of them are a missive from Weisshaupt, kindly burn them," she advised only half-jokingly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind an ear.

That remark earned her a soft gasp, a hand to cover a mouth dropped open, and widening eyes. As small as the reaction was, curious bystanders stopped their conversations to gaze over in the group's direction; Chancellor Roderick turned from his conversation with two civilians to convey a look of abhorrence. "The Grey Warden Headquarters?" Lady Josephine clarified after quickly regaining her composure, hands tightening over her clipboard, "Herald... Warden-Commander Amell. You can't possibly-"

"I assure you: they are a useless lot, all of them up in the Anderfels," Rubbing her temples at her pounding headache from the voices of the Calling, Amell could not stop her hands from shaking over the pain. "I understand their reluctance to interfere in the Mage-Templar war, but ignoring all of my pleas for assistance when the Calling started?" Unforgivable. Her eyes narrowed as she stared off into space, recalling late nights of frantically writing inquiries to her own leaders, begging for help and realizing that none would come, all the while her people continued to walk to the Deep Roads to meet their end.

"But," the Ambassador faintly protested, "they are your superiors." Amell sighed; unreasonable behavior was not going to win her any favors here. She was never a diplomatic person; anyone who talked to her for at least five minutes would come to that conclusion. She was more inclined towards a show of force, extensive blackmail, and persuasion skills - essentially how she stopped the Fifth Blight. Nobody knew why she held such resentment towards Weisshaupt. In fact, to a certain extent, it wasn't even their fault, it was that of the thrice damned Sloth Demon of Kinloch Hold who chose to trap her in a Fade version of Weisshaupt, its false majesty that grated on her as she stayed, feeling time slipping past her fingertips like water. That nightmare soured all opinions toward the fortress.

"Commanders of the Grey have some amount of autonomy in their rule over their respective regions. Some more than others," Amell ran a distracted hand through her hair, "Weisshaupt has a lot to answer for and I can guarantee you that no one is happy with them." A small smile, bitter and grim, danced at the edge of her mouth, "If the Breach had not happened, I would've eventually made my way up to them to force their hand." She looked back down and smiled ruefully, "such as they are, it seems that solving your problem would also solve my own."

Cullen crossed his arms, "The Inquisition doesn't have the resources to send men north, but we have forwarded messages through Sister Nightingale's ravens. She is certain that they have reached the wardens there though the ravens return empty handed." Amell shifted in her spot, drawing a circle in the ground with her shoe: Cullen is standing... Very close. He wasn't touching her anymore, but she could feel the heat emanating from him, warming her side. Or maybe it was her hyper-awareness of his presence (and only his presence) and she herself was feeling hot due to her own body's reactions?

"Doesn't mean that they couldn't be intercepted by someone in the organization," Lady Montilyet added, making a flourish as she jotted down a note on a blank piece of vellum. "The wardens, though a highly respected group, do not share their secrets and they come across a bit... Enigmatic." She offered an apologetic look as she struggled to find the proper adjective, "However, some of my contacts have been whispering about, like what the Herald has hinted, a degree of infighting." She handed over two neatly folded letters, "These, fortunately, are not from the Anderfels."

The mage warden smoothed out the first dispatch, picking off the melted wax from the corners, as she read. The first one had her make a wry face, "Likewise, kindly also burn any that you get from Warden-Commander Clarel of Orlais... It's not out of disrespect" she hastily added at Lady Montilyet's scandalized face, "She's been requesting me to lend some Ferelden wardens for her own purpose but I've always declined since she wouldn't tell me why she wanted them. She claims that it's to stop the out of control Calling, but..." She paused, letting the back of her head hit the column as she sighed. The light from the Ambassador's candle flickered a sharp profile on all surfaces, projecting a surreal air towards the architecture of the Chantry.

After making a noise of comprehension, Cullen addressed Lady Montilyet who looked intrigued when Amell clearly couldn't bother explaining further, "It would make sense to decline the offer, Ambassador. Warden-Commander Clarel didn't state why she needed the Ferelden wardens and why you couldn't do it yourself without needing her. No one would risk doing that to help a stranger and it would also make sense not to continue communications as she is also," he raised an eyebrow as he scanned the writing, "raving mad. Maker's Breath, I can barely follow her thought processes."

"Callings make you like that: disjointed and illogical," Amell reflected as as she broke the wax seal of the second letter; she immediately brightened, "Oh, this is much better. Dear Nathaniel, one of my first recruits, wrote back," she grinned as she traced over the dried ink on the parchment, slightly crumpled at the edges, impeccable handwriting, yellowing on one side due to the harsh elements that it had endured in it's journey to Haven. The voice in the letter sounded incredibly flat and long suffering, but tinted with affection.

_To the Inquisition:_

_I understand that my Commander has once again gotten herself embroiled in a vital world saving quest or another as she is wont to do. Please give her my and all of her wardens' best wishes and relief. We are safe here at Soldier's Peak - Avernus's presence and his experimental barrier against the Calling is off-putting but given time, we will be used to him just as we will be used to his decidedly amoral leanings._

_I would like to warn my Commander's advisors of some her quirks, however, specifically her tendency to wander off and return with some unusual object or person - they are all invaluable despite initial appearances. To put it simply, more than half of the grey wardens that she had personally recruited have tried to kill her at one point or another and having Joined, they are our best and most loyal men and women on the field. But I digress._

"Which would explain the sudden influx of your inner circle: Iron Bull, Sera, and Vivienne were unexpected but welcomed additions," Lady Montilyet murmured as she placed the wrapped package in Amell's hands, "individuals that I would not have thought were capable of being successfully recruited."

"It's not that hard," the mage warden argued, "to find companions. No one likes to be alone. No one of the Inquisition has tried to kill me; Cassandra has tried arresting me, but that isn't attempted murder." That remark earned her a sniff and an incredulous look - apparently, she had completely missed the point. Cullen, trying to stifle his laughter behind his gloved hand, deigned to comment.

_Due to obvious reasons, I cannot in good faith send our Ferelden wardens over to add to your manpower. But I have included two swords that I hope will be of some use to your organization._

_Warden Constable of Ferelden_

Curious, Amell delicately unwrapped the bundle and gasped is delight as the candlelight offered a sharp contrast of gleaming metal gleaming gold with the shine of well-polished volcanic aurum. Two greatswords: one asymmetric and the other symmetric in design. Both seemed to hum with the love from their blacksmith and untold amount of days spent in their creation. "He actually sent them," Amell whispered in reverence, tracing the sharp edges with a finger, not flinching as she accidentally drew blood. Quickly pressing her lips over the bleeding area, she set the asymmetric sword aside and pulled the other from its scabbard, allowing light to catch on its blade, a streak of white, "Vigilance and... Cullen... Ahh, Commander, would any of your men have need for Dragonbrand? It would be a pity to hold it in storage as a spare."

The man accepted the offered greatsword, Dragonbrand, in his hands, took a few steps back, and gave it a few experimental swings, smoothly moving from one stance to another. Lady Montilyet's hand jumped to her chest as she quickly retreated to Amell's other side and nearby witnesses looked on admiringly as the sword whistled as it arced. The controlled power behind his swings were a result of a lifetime of practice, honed into his muscles. He tested its balance and hold and, after a minute or two, with a pleased noise, suggested, "Hand it to your qunari mercenary. He would appreciate it's dragon-slaying capabilities," he pressed the blade back into her waiting hands, his fingers brushing over hers.

And therein lies the crux of the problem.

Every touch from him, though it seemed unintentional, felt a second too long, felt like caresses, felt hot on sensitive skin. He couldn't possibly be doing this on purpose, is he? Amell looked down at her reflection on Dragonbrand's metallic surface, her own face slightly red in the dim light as her blush slowly moved up to her tattoos. She shifted the grip on the handle: she saw Cullen's reflection staring off to the side as he cleared his throat.

Cullen is... different. He acts differently around her. At first glance, it seemed like their relationship had reverted back to the past before she was conscripted by Duncan. These days, long nights were spent together hovering over the war table, between trying to decide how to best allocate resources to various parts of the continent, they idly chatted about various topics: his experiences in Kirkwall, hers in Amaranthine, discussing the good and bad leadership qualities that one can possess and, whimsically, the golem that used to stand in the middle of the town square of Honnleath. At second glance, their relationship had taken a turn to the path less trodden and leading to... nothing more than an infatuation.

Small touches and small looks that make her feel all sorts of things: pretty, wanted, desired, needed... Amell rubbed her sternum - it ached.

"Herald?" She startled from her thoughts and turned towards the source of the voice. Cullen had made an excuse to go relieve his soldiers from Cassandra's loving training exercises. Lady Montilyet held her clipboard close to her chest, her eyes lingered at the opened double doors, "If I may be bold enough to ask, how did you and Commander Cullen first meet? I understand that you were both in the Ferelden Circle tower but usually mage-templar relations are poor regardless of proximity." A cold wind blew in bits of snow past the threshold: they danced in the air till they melted on the stone floor.

Amell tilted her head as she looked at the woman in amusement. Really, was Cullen more tight-lipped than she was? She used to be able to effortlessly wheedle the templar patrol schedules out of him. "I got caught trying to smuggle a friend of mine who was an apprentice to meet with his lover who was a senior mage. My punishment was five days in a cell and he was my guard. I started talking to him after the first hour."

In the following silence, she counted to eight before the Ambassador dryly accused without, impressively, loosing any of her poise, "You do know that I can tell when you lie, Herald." Amell laughed, linking arms with Lady Montilyet as she cajoled the noble woman to step outside for some fresh air.


	4. Chapter 4

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Amell**

Becoming a grey warden does not suddenly infuse the recruit with fighting prowess, nor does the organization hold any code of honor as Blackwall wished to believe. There was a reason why wardens in general did not complain when their accomplishments in history are repeatedly forgotten and viewed with a sense of mob apathy and it was not just because the commanders tended to recruit the criminals, the outsiders, and the eccentrics. When the world forgets their deeds, less eyes judge their choices - their typically amoral, grey choices. There is no burden of responsibility to uphold values of the common people; it makes their work easier when the endgame is the prevention of another Blight. All the men and women part of the group, each a little twisted inside, are bonded by a sacrifice that lasts thirty years.

Years ago when her group was on the road between civilizations, ambushed on a seemly daily basis by the hoards of genlocks, hurlocks, and, if they were not lucky, an ogre or two, she used to quip, "All roads lead to darkspawn," a staff in hand when the telltale signs of goosebumps and chills erupt down her spine.

"Untrue," Alistair used to amend after altercations as he wiped the gore off of his sword using looted pieces of cloth," All roads lead away from darkspawn," referring to the surrounding villages, sacked, and empty of people who had long fled.

Here is the question one should ask: while the sacrifice bonds wardens together to each other and their duty, do they ever extend further to the people that they're trying to save? As the organization keeps their secrets and grows more insular, with no one as a reliable moral compass, how skewed are their perceptions of the world to the point that they think that the ramifications of raising a demon army is acceptable to the losses of their fellow men in order to eradicate all future Blights and stop the false Calling?

Amell stared at the letter that had passed through so many hands that the edges were weathered thin. Scout Harding had reported that the parchment had slipped into the pocket of one of the less experienced members of her reconnaissance team somewhere between Halamshiral and Crestwood. (Leliana was not entirely pleased.) Amell had been skeptical of the veracity of the words but she knew the writer, Jean-Marc Stroud, from accidental encounters on her own travels to get a feel for his handwriting and his voice. Unlike Amell who travels due to constant wanderlust, the senior warden tended to travel to the corners of Thedas to avoid being trapped by the Great Game. And now, it seemed that he was on the run from his own people.

Resisting the urge to rub her face, she kicked at the snow drifts, feeling the mark of the rift crackling in her left palm, emitting green light into the darkness despite her hands being bandaged. Dog ran past her legs, sights set on a wild nug in the distance. As the snowfall eventually drowned out Dog's happy barks, she sought shelter in a nearby hut where she had found Adan's lyrium potion recipe, feeling neither the inclination nor the energy to stop by the tavern or head back to her bed. The sun had set hours ago; she contemplated the pros and cons of staying here for the night. On one hand, the entirety of Haven would flip if they found her missing in the morning. On the other hand, if she woke up early enough, she could sneak back later with no one the wiser.

She was loosing time: fatigue, days of restless sleep, a haze around her mind. A simple walk around the town outskirts to clear her mind had turned into a massive trek that had eaten up her afternoon and evening. She glanced at the letter in her hand and crumpled it, "Wardens on the coast... Wardens in Orlais... Warden Commander Clarel..." She collapsed onto the single chair in the room, drained. Stroud had informed her that this notice was his third: he had sent out ten copies to ten different trusted men and women. Communication was highly unreliable and he did not dare to disclose his location for fear of being discovered.

"My protests have earned me the enmity of my peers, even those who I have personally recruited and trained. It is a heartbreaking thought to think that our corruption in the ranks have driven us to do these unspeakable deeds and turn on our fellow men," Stroud's plea for help was desperate - she wondered how closely he was hounded, "Warden-Commander Amell: you strike me as someone who still have that bit of empathy within her. I wish for understanding. I cannot be the only one to think that this is madness." He could not even flee to her position due to the inherent risks - he could only give a one-way warning. "I have a plan in place - for the time being, do not worry about me."

She rested her elbows on the desk, pressing her palms to her eyes. Senior Warden Stroud was a good man and did not deserve the fate of a wanted man. Warden-Commander Clarel's rambling messages had stopped a week ago - she must've known. But according to her three advisors, there had been no overt threats or attacks on the Inquisition since then. Clarel must be biding her time... Or summoning demons.

Had Amell been in any other position, she would've dropped everything and led a one-man rescue mission to haul Stroud from whatever miserable cave he was cooped up in. But the responsibilities of the Inquisition held her back. "Priorities. Do not do anything radical until the Breach is sealed," Leliana had pulled her aside when she had been making her rounds, "Seal the Breach and we'll negotiate on setting aside time for personal quests. If you must need men, send out Blackwall."

That would've been a grand idea... If it wasn't for the fact that Blackwall isn't a grey warden. Amell's forehead hit the desk; the subsequent dull sound of contact did not ease her nerves.

Initially, hearing that there was a warden constable nearby and meeting the man himself had her almost hugging him out of sheer joy. She had been looking forward to the camaraderie that comes with being a part of something greater. She wanted someone who _understands_. Blackwall seemed to have all of that and more - he resisted the Calling, he wasn't under Warden-Commander Clarel's influence, and he was a talented warrior. But given a couple days of thought and endless questions and vague answers, her excitement turned into doubt, finally culminating into a confession earlier this afternoon that she was still not sure how to handle.

Amell shelved the small voice inside her mind suggesting that he should undergo the Joining since he already romanticized the organization to the extent that he had : that was an idea to be toyed with at a later date - a much, much later date. It was not as if the rest of her companions weren't hiding something. "You learn this from the Ben-Hassrath" Iron Bull had swept an arm to encompass the entirety of Haven's outer walls, "It's tragedies. If it's not tragedies, it's secrets. If it's not secrets, then its burdens. Everyone of your people has them. Except for that elf, Sera, but she's a bit of a special case." The qunari had tapped the side of his nose with a finger, "Don't worry, Boss. You'll eventually learn to read the little tells."

* * *

"You didn't kill the real Blackwall, did you?" She had asked, cornering him in the corner of the smithy, right hand twitching, ready to shoot out the most lethal spell she knew if he dared to do anything other than answer her question. _You aren't colluding against the wardens, are you? You aren't conspiring against the Inquisition, are you?_

The man did his best not to act the part of said cornered animal - her approval of him incrementally increased. "No," still, he looked nervous due to their public spot and private conversation - a bad combination if not for the fact that Harrit's men at the fire can drown out even the roars of a druffalo. "But he had planned to conscript me." She drew closer, gaze lingering on his eyes, his body language, trying to gauge his worth.

She had tilted her head to the right. "Why is that?" Blackwall, or whatever his name is, doesn't strike one as a criminal... Was he an outsider? Mildly eccentric? He did roam the Hinterlands alone as a proclaimed recruiter, taking pride in his isolation and how he did the thankless jobs of helping the common man. It seemed rather contrived.

"Because he saw something in me. And for that, I'll take up his name, honor his death, and discard my shameful past," his hands clenched at his side, his voice lowered and a bit of the Markham accent peeked through his speech. He was reliving some unpleasant memories, eyes glazed into some far away space, pupils dilated due to their dark surroundings. She waited patiently for him to resurface back to the present.

Blackwall wasn't a far cry from her own Ferelden Wardens in terms of tragic pasts - Sigrun was by all accounts legally dead. However, as much as he was a champion, he was a coward, and it takes time, sometimes years, to rid oneself of the coward. "Your resolve won't make it go away," she remarked, offering one of her rare bits of wisdom. Behind her, she could hear a workmen beating away at a standard issued sword and then the telling hiss of red hot metal drenched in water.

He straightened and bowed, an arm across his chest, and solemnly concluded, "I will wait for it. Till then, I'll put my talents to good use, Herald... Commander of the Grey." He had taken her statement to mean that she wasn't kicking him out into the cold - and she wasn't going to - but he was completely missing the point. Shaking her head, she turned on her heels to ruminate on the new information.

* * *

"Amell?" She jerked up from her position sprawled halfway over the desk and turned around to the voice, brushing hair away from her face. She pushed back her chair and stood, rubbing her eyes as she struggled to regain her bearings. Cullen's silhouette took up most of the open doorway, black against black, with the skies above him in that ethereal shade of green. With a solid grip on her shoulder, he gently pulled her forward, "Cassandra is searching for you. Were you sleeping here?"

"I-" she yawned into a knuckle and rubbed her stiff neck, "I think I was. I meant to." Walking to the door, she glanced outside, shivering as the windchill brushed against her skin. The Breach swirled high above, blocking out the starlight. His hands were tracing the impressions on her face that she had gotten from the uneven surface of the table. "Must I go back now?" She plaintively asked, unmoving as his thumb continued to brush against her facial markings. He didn't answer. Conceding to his unspoken demands, she let her head rest on his armor, "I didn't think that anyone would find me," She mumbled as a hand slipped under her back and her legs and lifted her into the air.

"I know," he said simply, adjusting his hold on her, "that you tend to equate distance with solace." She buried her face in the warm fabric and hummed softly. He walked around the frozen lake, the rhythm of his boots crunching against the snow soothing enough for her to stay in that in-between state of wakefulness and sleep. Haven was peaceful tonight - many had opted to stay with families instead of participating in revelries among friends. The shadow of a ram darted in the trees, fleet footed, sure footed...

She drifted off for an unknown amount of time. The whispers came, urging her to move underground and head for the Deep Roads. The voice in the Breach again demanded a sacrifice. Divine Jusitinia again begged her to warn the people. The howls of a wolf grew closer. In the Fade lurked a demon of colossal mass, of multiple elongated limbs, of a mouth of teeth and a face with no eyes. Little creatures crawled at its feet, scurrying up a cliff, scurrying towards an open fade rift. She heard the roar of a dragon calling for its master.

"Is your Calling getting stronger?" Cullen later asked her at the steps of her cabin. "You were restless." The cold from the snow was beginning to seep through her boots and to her feet. A part of her wished to huddle in the heat of the fireplace; a part of her wished to move closer to Cullen and his own emanating warmth. But her faculties were beginning to return to her and the more she awoken from her half-sleep the more she remembered how she allowed him to carry her in...

Maker have mercy: hopefully the shroud of darkness hid the blush that had spread across her cheeks. She carded a hand through her hair, "Only when I sleep," she admitted after a few seconds of heavy silence, "It's nightmares, mostly. I only get headaches when I'm awake."

"Amell," he stepped closer. She looked up and then averted her gaze. The door was behind her - at any moment, she could walk through and pretend that this never happened. But she stayed. (Why did she stay? Did she really want this?)

"Yes," she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The aborted movement to reach out and cup his face turned into an awkward pat on his shoulder. She let the hand rest there, curling her fingers into the feathers of his pauldrons. "They are getting stronger. It's fine; I'm handling it. You..." she blinked as it occurred to her that, "Cassandra wasn't looking for me, was she? You shouldn't worry too much."

He laughed, soft and mirthless, "I can't help it. Amell," he whispered. "You know why I care." She could feel his presence lingering close, his eyes pinning her down, his words seeping into her skin. If she tilted her head back... and he leaned down that last inch, he could...

"Commander?" Amell nearly jumped out of her skin in fright. Cullen shifted head rest against the crook of her neck and growled, his breath tickling her collarbone. From the beaten path, a soldier had appeared with a massive stack of files, unaware of the tension forming around the man. "I have papers from Sister Nighting-" The soldier looked up and faltered, "I'm sorry. Did I interrupt...?" Feeling hot and lightheaded, Amell muttered excuses to duck into her cabin, slipping through the door and closing it just as she saw Cullen turning around to confront the terrified soldier.

Well. She felt her forehead and sat (collapsed) onto her bed. Her mind was a mess; her heart even more so. She knew what Cullen wanted. Cullen knew that she wouldn't run, at least not until her embarrassment overcame her senses. In the morning - sometime in the future, between the duties of the Inquisition, maybe they will revisit what they had. Sighing at the memory of his heated gaze and of his touches (small, heavy, hungry), she closed her eyes and willed herself a dreamless sleep.

Hours later, Amell woke up on her bed in her cottage to the singing of warblers and the rising sun; unsure whether she had dreamed that entire encounter. There was an unopened note sitting innocently on her desk that she had missed in the night, next to the autographed _Hard in Hightown_ series that Varric had gifted to her a couple days prior.

"Cousin," the note said, writing decorated with ink blots and blood spray, "If you are still searching for leads of Senior Warden Janeka, I suggest you ask Varric for the story of Warden-Commander Larius and a darkspawn named Corypheus. I am making my way to your Inquisition and am in a bit of a quandary. Not to worry: the blood is not mine. Rescue missions are tricky like that and of course Senior Warden Stroud has to hide in the most inaccessible cave in Thedas. It's a bit hard to sit and write when all your daily spiders have turned into corrupted spiders by the red lyrium. Where did all the bears come from? I don't remember Ferelden having this many bears. - Hawke."

**Iron Bull**

A white sun surrounded by white clouds, immediately shaded by the silhouette of three people when he groaned and squinted, "He's awake and lives to fight another day!" Varric announced on his left, peering at him critically, "How many fingers am I holding up?" His horns felt like someone had taken a razor and shaved them down till they drew blood at the quick. The scent of burnt hair wafted into his nose; he coughed out a small cloud of smoke and winced as all of his nerves from the neck down screamed.

"Thank the Maker, we don't have to carry him," Boss muttered as she began rummaging in her pack, listening for the tell-tale clink of glass hitting glass. Iron Bull stiffly accepted the proffered vial of elfroot potion and chugged it down like ale. Immediately, open gashes began to close, bruises disappeared as the familiar warmth slowly mended his broken bones. She clasped her hands together as he gingerly sat up, "Congratulations Bull, on delivering the killing blow to the Dragon of the Hinterlands and then knocking yourself out when said High Dragon collapsed onto you." He braced himself on a hand and knee and waved away Blackwall's offer to haul him up and instead reached for Dragonbrand, still in one piece if not a bit scorched around the pommel. "There's a nasty bump on your head," she cocked her head to the side and raised a hand in a silent offer to use a healing spell, "Do you remember the fight?"

"It's slowly coming back, Boss," he grunted, rubbing his throat and reaching for his waterskin. He waited for the tendrils of light pouring from her hand to gently dim and for his headache to disappear before taking a long draught. "We're going to do this again, aren't we?" he asked with a grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just because I fainted doesn't mean that I'm not raring to have another go at another dragon." While he got duo looks of shock and mild horror from his companions, the boss slyly winked at him. Chuckling, he offered her a small nod in acknowledgment: it was good to know that the Herald was as crazy, if not more, than he.

"Andraste have mercy," having not seen their exchange, the dwarf groaned, ripping off the edges of his tattered sleeves and throwing them to the ground, "I swore to myself back in Kirkwall's Bone Pit that no more: Varric Tethras is not going to fight another one of those beasts if he could get away with it. Another dragon down and Tiny wants to look for more." He leaned over, hands on knees, still regaining his stamina and breath, and uncorked a vial of healing potion.

"You only have two under your belt. Stop whining," Boss laughed as she threw a bundle of gauze at the rogue's feet, "Wait till you get to five." She wasn't bothered by Varric's gripe. In fact, she glowed with the post-adrenalin rush and the more he scowled the more she beamed in his direction, wearing her own scrapes and bruises like stylish accents on clothing, though the smears of blood running down the corner of her mouth gave her the impression of a wild animal.

"This is the fifth dragon you've slain," Blackwall clarified with an undertone of incredulity. Iron Bull made a happy sound at the back of his throat that had him descend into another coughing fit. Scout Harding emerged from the grotto where she had been critically observing the battle and stopped a few paces away from them to survey the carnage. With a blow from her horn, more scouts arrived from the nearby Inquisition camp with an armful of equipment to dismantle and salvage the bodies of the dragon and dragonlings. Many stopped in their tracks to gap at the bloody scene.

Boss flipped her hair back and retied it with her collection of string and ribbons, "It's not as impressive as you'd think. Cassandra stopped four dragons from eating Divine Beatrix III. The Hero of Orlais, the Right Hand of the Divine - where did you think she got those titles? Anyways, depending on how you look at it, it's more like four and a half, seeing that my second dragon that I thought had died recently visited me, turned into Flemeth, praised me on a job well done, then turned back into a dragon, and went on her merry way." She picked up her greatsword (comically too big for her size and stature) from the grass, deftly wiped the blood off with a piece of cloth, and frowned when the red streaks refused to come away. Though she was unsatisfied, she still proceeded to tie the weapon to her back.

Varric had meanwhile choked mid-swallow, "Wait, did you just say, 'Flemeth?' You killed the Witch of the Wilds?" At her absently given nod of assent, he stared down at his vial with intent, as if his own will power would change it to the strongest liquor Thedas had to offer, "that explains so much." Amell glanced up, raising an eyebrow at the non sequitur.

Fortunately, years of training in the Ben-Hassrath has enabled him to move through the puzzles of people with ease. With all the research he had done on his fellow fighters of the Inquisition and of the Herald, it did not take him long to connect the dots that the boss had missed. Seeker Cassandra had once expressed her frustration at the fact that the world does not operate on happenstances any longer - connections between men and women of importance that people would not have initially guessed are pushing the world into change. In his more spiritual, perceptive, drunken moments, Iron Bull can admit that yes, change was happening (- greater change to those who ride the coattails of the destined and fated heroes). The Qun does not put weight on any of the legends south of Seheron, but in times of weakness, when the Orlesian debaucheries had died down to their respective pockets of festivities, he wondered.

"You might want to open _Tale of the Champion _when we get back to Haven." Iron Bull placed a hand on her shoulder when her expression turned into one of confused bewilderment. "Read it front to back, not just the ending. It would explain why your second dragon came back from the dead."

"I'll tell the story to you myself later, over drinks when we aren't stinking in guts and gore," Varric sighed, tucking his favored crossbow back into its holder and rolled his shoulders. "Maker's balls. You cannot make this shit up," he mumbled though everyone could clearly hear him as he made his way, a faint limp and favoring his right side, back to camp.

She rubbed two grimy fingers together, making a pained expression of disgust as dried blood smeared with fresh blood. After a few seconds of gathering his gear, Blackwall followed Varric back to camp to restock on his inventory of potions. She gave his retreating figure a considering look, varying visible emotions ranging from suspicion to curiosity. The news of Blackwall's mistaken identity had spread no further than the Herald's closest contacts. Speculation on his past history had only invited cloudy answers - despite his upfront personality, he was very good at hiding. But he was an ardent warrior. If bonds of brotherhood are not built upon words, they are at the very least formed slowly in blood.

Iron Bull breathed deeply and allowed himself some time to bask in the afternoon sun. Clashes of steel and magic echoed off the mountains in the Hinterlands; the mage-templar war was vast and endless. Redcliffe sat in the northeast, gates barred shut from anyone who was not an apostate seeking asylum. He closed his eyes. A momentary vision flashed past his memory: the back of a raging dragon, thick plumes of smoke suffocating and causing his eyes to water, grip via thighs tightening as he was swung side to side, as he raised his sword with both hands and plunged into its crest. He could still hear its screams.

"Bull?" He opened his eyes. She had craned her neck back to stare questioningly at him, "You following?"

"Right behind you, Boss." Satisfied, she turned around and jogged back up the steppe caverns. Another vision pushed its way to the forefront of his mind: her back facing him, sprinting towards the High Dragon, left hand wielding fire, right hand wielding ice, and a thick miasma of power pouring from her body. "You know," he began conversationally, "if I was anymore truthful in my reports to Seheron, they might order me to convert you into the Qun."

"They can try," she slowed her pace till he caught up to her side and blinked twice, "You know," she parroted, with a reflective tone, "I had a friend, Sten, well, Arishok now, who told me the same. I told him that me joining the Qun was as likely as him becoming a Ferelden warden." Her inquiring stare reminded him of the assessing gaze she had given him when she had first met him and his chargers, pants worn from sliding down the cliff side of the Storm Coast.

* * *

Krem had good things to say about her; but it took seeing her to be struck by how young she still was (younger than him, younger than the people at her side). Barely entering adulthood when she stopped the Blight, barely resting after her first set of heroics before rebuilding the Ferelden Wardens from nothing but an abandoned keep - word traveled fast, whispered with a tint of fear. But she wasn't her titles, in fact... She would be more receptive to the odd quirk than staunch mannerisms. With this in mind, he had bowed with his good-will and respect paid for someone of her position, an arm over the chest and promised with a small tilt in the corner of his mouth, "Whenever you need an ass kicked, whenever you're getting your ass kicked, The Iron Bull is with you."

He was not wrong. She had laughed and poked him in his midsection, "You," she declared, trying to speak through her mirth, "I like you."

* * *

She knelt down to pluck a royal elfroot, smelling it to test its quality, "We're still on good terms due to a mutually beneficial trade of scented candles and baked goods. Apparently, you don't have cookies in Par Vollen." An easy grin stretched across her face, headless of the small cuts littering her visage.

At the camp, people bustled about in frantic movements, gathering firewood, repairing equipment, fulfilling requisitions, and healing the wounded. Boss's attention was called by Lead Scout Harding and they began to discuss further plans of movement for the Inquisition troops. They wandered to the side, seeking the shade of a nearby tree. Varric, having been tended to, sported an impressive band aid clearly slapped hastily on his cheek - but he looked more refreshed than he had before standing in knee deep amounts of slaughtered dragon. The dwarf side-eyed him, "If you keep salivating like that, you might get into a bit of trouble. Curly wouldn't appreciate you fawning over her."

It wasn't quite salivating, it was more like minor hero worship. Regardless, Iron Bull snorted, "If he is that upset, then the Commander should fight harder."

**Leliana**

Leliana's clothes still smelled faintly of the candles from her vigils that she partakes in every time the news of a scout's death reached her. "Honor the sacrifices," Amell had said when she first suggested what would become almost a nightly ritual, "No man or woman is expendable. Become the person that they see, embrace the qualities that inspired them to follow you." She had an armful of blood-red simple make, wax and wicks, sold wholesale at the Chantry that she claimed were used whenever a mage failed their Harrowing. "Or you can bathe in the blood of your enemies," She had shrugged then cursed when a candle slipped her hold and rolled onto the ground, "I might be selfish. The Inquisition might see you as Sister Nightingale, but you're always Leliana to me." So the Seneschal, Spymaster, Advisor, Bard, Archer, and Left Hand of the Divine continued her rites, if for nothing but a peace of mind and a practice to fall back on in hard times.

She had barely finished her prayers and farewells before she was being called to the war council. En route, she was given a hefty dossier on the situation at the arling. "It's pretty terrible," Amell warned as they walked side by side through the Chantry doors, "half of the inhabitants there are reluctant rebels. All of them have suffered from the war. It's more of a refugee camp than a sanctuary. And... Well, you're reading the more complicated bits."

"We've already agreed to reach out to the mages and I am not going to change my mind," Leliana reaffirmed as she flipped through the pile, eyes locking on keywords such as Tevinter Imperium and indentured servitude. "You need to distribute the magic in the area when you close the Breach. I will not have you risking your life without conduits."

"I'm not going to blow up, Leliana," Amell assured her. "If I do, I'll be sure to aim far from your shoes."

The glare that she got for that quip was scathing, "Don't joke..." A beat: the spymaster sighed, "Wait, of course you would. You didn't stop your black humor even the night before the the Battle of Denerim." Vivienne momentarily stopped her work at her table to glance up at them; Mother Giselle inclined her head in a greeting. High in the alcove, her ravens flew from perch to perch, staring down at the people below them with inquisitive eyes. "As long as you know what we are dealing with in Redcliffe and the ramifications of Grand Enchanter Fiona's decisions..." she trailed off, "You wanted to discuss something about her?"

Amell tilted her head to the side in thought, "Ah, that. Yes, I did," she leaned over, voice hushed, "I, er, want you to observe her" The spymaster raised an unimpressed eyebrow as Amell hurriedly gestured towards her face, "She looks familiar around the eyes. I have the strangest idea but," she shrugged, "It would be better to hear your thoughts first. Just keep it in mind - it's not an emergency."

Leliana pursed her lips, "Perhaps when all of this is over. Come, let us meet your new ally. I heard that he is quite the character," she opened the door and beckoned Amell through, "What was his name again?"

"Dorian Pavus," Amell said as she walked into the chamber, "of House Pavus," waving in the direction of the man standing opposite of the war table, flanked by Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra. Lady Josephine sat off to the side outlining a letter to King Alistair. Leliana assessed the newcomer silently: tanned skin, groomed hair, clothing that looked outright impractical for anyone, even a mage (when armor schematics rely upon the type of runes threaded into the cloth instead of the physics and durability of the material, designs evolve in the way of fashion instead of reason, but even Dorian was an outlier in Tevinter tastes) with an impressive number of buckles holding down his pieces. While the Spymaster was giving the man a hard glare, Amell's gaze contained overwhelming curiosity - examining him more like a specimen than an actual person. Then again, Amell used to stare at Zevran the same way when he had just joined their group all those years ago so really she shouldn't be surprised if this moment was going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. "He doesn't look Tevinter," Amell offered after nearly a minute of silence.

The man seemed to regain his composure with that comment, "Were you expecting a vision more monstrous? Elongated teeth and a set of horns perhaps." He huffed, crossing his arms, looking fairly affronted.

"Sorry," Amell looked mildly contrite as she crossed the room and peered over the map of the world, "the only people I've ever met from Tevinter were slavers who were kidnapping elves. They were an unpleasant group and, well, there wasn't enough time to sit them down for tea and ask them about themselves." Her fingers danced lightly over the map pieces, "Got some good gear from them," she mumbled just loud enough for the Spymaster to hear. Leliana resisted the urge to do something childish like stamp on her toes or poke her ribs.

Dorian leaned over the table, frowning as he followed their path of reasoning, "And you believe that all the mages of the Thedas are unintentionally selling themselves into slavery," he mused, propping his chin with a hand.

"You can't deny that as a possibility," Leliana pointed out with a cool tone, "I would put down saving the entire mage population from slavery as a high priority of the Inquisition. And the time magic that you said Magister Alexius used. He was purposely maneuvering around us, he wanted to reach the mages first."

"So you will help," Dorian concluded as he straightened. The tiniest bit of hope leaked through his tone.

"Against our better judgment," the Seeker muttered, eyes narrowing into a baleful glare. The stark light from the small fires encased her in an even more intimidating air.

"Before we go any further, I want to clarify," the Commander's grip tightened on his sword, "Are we really comfortable with sending the Herald into Redcliffe? We all know that we are willingly springing Gereon Alexius's trap by seeking negotiations with him," he demanded, sweeping an arm over the war table, "Not to mention, that even if everything goes well and we secure their services, the amount of mages in Haven might cause a backlash onto the Herald when we seal the Breach."

"It's either not enough power or too much," Amell countered, flicking her left wrist, revealing the layers of bandages around her hand that hid the mark from view, "Both options are quite horrible." Closing her eyes and minutely relaxing her stance, Cassandra grudgingly agreed.

"Going to Redcliffe would let us learn more of this Venatori cult that Mage Pavus mentioned," Josephine added. "Officially, they are not sanctioned in any capacity by the Tevinter Imperium, which limits our understanding of them." She made a flourish with her feather and let her draft aside to allow the ink to dry, "If we learn more through exploiting Magister Alexius's alliance, then we can further investigate who was responsible for opening the Breach."

"I will come along," as Dorian interjected, the Inquisition as a whole turned their heads in eerie synchronicity. Their actions did not deter him as he insisted, "I have insight into the magic that Alexius uses. You need me there." Amell looked like she was considering the offer.

"No," The Commander's voice echoed strongly against the walls with its intensity, "If you think it's that easy to trust you, you are very much mistaken." Leliana mulled over Dorian's offer, weighing the pros and cons. While he would be in close proximity to the Herald, he has pointed out the deficiencies in their knowledge about their new opponent. His reasons for helping were made abundantly clear. Did the risks outweigh the benefits? She stared at Cullen until he met her eyes, blushed red, and turned away. For the Commander, probably not.

"We've closed a fade rift together. That is as good as exchanging drinks," Amell laughed, tapping her fingers against the wood of the table. "However, Dorian Pavus" her eyes half-lidded, an unsettling smile spread across her features as she turned towards the man in question, "of House Pavus," she added as an afterthought, "if you betray the Inquisition, I must warn you that Leliana eats Magisters for breakfast." It was clear he didn't know how to make of the threat. This time, Leliana did reach out to pinch her friend in the side. Amell jerked away but otherwise seemed unfazed.

Josephine hid her smile behind a closed fist and a polite cough, "Come then, let us plan."


	5. Chapter 5

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Amell**

It seemed as if every corner of Redcliffe Castle held a deposit of red lyrium, growing slowly through the walls, floors, ceilings, and its inhabitants. The winding corridors and the uneasy atmosphere reminded her of the times she navigated through the Deep Roads - madness around every corner, invisible fingers pulling at weakened sanity. Red lyrium touched everyone on a psychological level - not even a dwarf was immune. A mere touch caused her senses to warp: screams, war drums, and the high pitch hum of all the fade rifts in Thedas - the walls bent and swayed to their own rhythm. It's potency has increased since the last year... Since her present time that was now her past.

She supposed that she should feel astonishment for successfully, though against her will, time traveling: a bit of stupefaction mixed in with awe and that sort of open-mouthed, speechless wonder that comes from achieving the impossible. Instead, there was a minor shock that lasted a few seconds at most before she had to engage with the prison guards that attacked them on sight when Dorian and she emerged from the portal. Senior Enchanter Uldred, due to popular demand, had gone over the theory of time travel in his class one day, a lifetime ago, but he had mainly touched upon points of divergent timelines and paradoxes when one travels to the past. No one had thought to ask about the mechanics of jumping forward into the future. Apparently, the magisters of the Tevinter Imperium had.

She rubbed her head, her breath sharply increased as a long curl of pain touched at the base of her neck and extended upwards. The Calling: it was neigh unbearable. Flemeth's amulet was almost shaking from the power it was emanating to keep her from being possessed. Dorian, her one sane ally in this mess of events, with their rescued party members, had scouted ahead to see if he can spot the guards while she gingerly picked red lyrium shards from the bodies of dead spellbinders, hands bloody from rummaging through their torn pockets. In this state, she was as much as a liability as a needed variable against this mysterious Elder One - the taint within her sang a siren song.

Ripping off a piece of plaidweave from the spellbinder, she folded the shard within and rolled it tight. "I can hold that for you," Leliana offered. Wordlessly, Amell handed it over and watched the woman tuck it into her side pouch with trembling fingers. A year's worth of torture had sapped life from her body: a spell, a side effect, an unthinkable crime against humanity, bits of skin cut off, blood drawn until she looked like a skeleton dipped in wax - her ability to wield a bow came not from her physical dexterity but from her willpower to see that of all the outcomes the future held for the Inquisition, that this was not one of them. "Do not look at me," she said without glancing up. Amell closed her eyes and turned around; the mark on her palm briefly flared.

It takes one year for the world to crumble through her fingers. It takes one year for Orlais to fall after the assassination of their Empress. It takes one year for the Elder One to conquer Thedas with a demon army. What horrors have you wrought, Warden-Commander Clarel? What of her own people at Soldier's Peak? Of the Inquisition? Of all the people that she held dear scattered across the land? Scant amounts of news filtered through the gossip channels of the Venatori in the form of overheard conversations, taunts, and abandoned notes: it was not enough.

Dorian returned in high spirits with a map containing marked places where he had spotted the tell-tale staff and tome of a spellbinder. Solas stood on his right, voice scratched from continuous apologies to someone he refused to name during his imprisonment. A few feet away, Sera hummed a distorted song, repeating the same eight notes again and again as she twirled on her toes; her eyes glowed from red lyrium exposure. "Up the stairs, down the hall... there are enough shards in this castle to open the door to the Throne Room," he paused to rub his eyes; they were a bit red, "that amulet of time magic would be on his person. I'm certain of it. Herald, if you may lead us..."

Amell allowed herself two seconds to give a shuddering breath to examine the three companions that had stayed in the timeline. She exchanged a knowing look with Dorian. The red lyrium ran through their systems like blood. If she failed again and stayed - they will die. This world was her first failure: this was her worst possible outcome. Taking the stairs down to the lower levels, her feet ate up ground, her sword dripped with blood - the rest dutifully followed. Walls (red red red) swept by in a dark blur. She feels...

("Hurry," Sera hissed as the group moves from the light of one fade torch to another, "He knows you're here. He's coming.")

Empty. Possibly from shock. A void grows within her that takes her breath, places doubts in her head, makes her fearful because it tastes of finality. So when they finally do find the Throne Room and witness the results of Felix's treatments, an empty shell suffering from a fate worse than dead, it is not willpower like that of Leliana's and of her companions' that drives her to battle, not fury, nor hate, but the knowledge in its absolute clarity that Gereon Alexius needs to die.

A dragon shook the foundations of the castle as it alighted on one of the watchtowers. She could imagine endless hoards of demons and darkspawn over the drawbridge, and in the midst of the army, one single entity whose presence was reminiscent of the Architect, the Elder One, stood tall. It sensed her mark and in return, the mark flared, once, twice, like a signaling beacon. She stumbled back, nearly tripping over Alexius's cooling body as pain continues to shoot through her skin, until Solas wrapped his fingers around her wrist and with a forceful push of his own magic, calmed the mark. On the top of the steps, Dorian levitated the amulet between open hands, a long incantation under his breath. The walls and ceilings shuddered so hard that dust fell from the high beams.

Sera's arms wrap around her middle; she squeezed for five seconds before jumping back, out of arms' reach. Solas traced her runic symbol with a delicate finger, "It was not meant to be like this," he murmured, words crawling out of his throat like black smoke, the double doors at the end of the hallway shake, "No one could've foreseen this on the day the Veil was torn. I vow that this day will not come." Backs straight, both elves walked out of her view. The next time she saw them, nearly an hour later, they were dead.

And Leliana, sweet Leliana who sang tales around the campfire, who preferred dancing shoes encrusted with jewels over dalish leather boots, hardened Leliana who no longer trusted the world to do right, who's arrows did not miss. It was Sister Nightingale who took aim, but before that, it was Leliana who turned to give Amell a farewell kiss. A weathered, scarred cheek touched hers before skeleton, trembling hands pushed her towards the throne.

"Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame. Andraste, guide me. Maker, take me to your side," murmured this version of Leliana, old, mutated, as she made her last stand, buying Dorian precious minutes to open a portal and pull them both through, just as a pack terror demons flanked the archer's side; a revenant surged forward, blocking the view of her death, and raised its sword...

Amell opened her mouth to scream but no sound came.

Suddenly, she was in the past, her present, her second chance, away from the horrific vision of what could be. The tapestries were not torn, the walls were clean of lyrium and blood, the torch lights were not dimmed by heavy, sacrificial blood magic. Amell slowly blinked and ran a hand through her hair. Gereon Alexius was on his knees at her feet, neck bare as if expecting an execution - of which she was so tempted to give and would have gladly done so if not for the sudden interruption by the king's retinue.

She briefly wondered what Alistair would make of the scene before him. Her sword was held an inch from Magister Alexius' vulnerable neck, his son hovered protectively over his right shoulder, Dorian had his staff faced in the direction of the Denerim soldiers, eyes wary and alert. Sera and Solas stood on either side of the columns with weapons drawn, fresh and ready to fight. Leliana emerged from the shadows at Fiona's left, executing a low bow to an old friend. Alistair offered an imperceptible nod before turning his rage towards the elven mage who was wringing her hands out of nerves. Trusting her legs to hold her, Amell sheathed her sword back into her scabbard and wandered over to her Spymaster who had her arms crossed, eyes flitting between King Alistair and Grand Enchanter Fiona with an increasingly disbelieving stare.

"-given Redcliffe Castle to a Tevinter Magister! You spat in the face of my generosity and turned over-"

Amell coughed and cleared her throat, "She's familiar around the eyes." The other woman hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head slightly.

"I see it too," Leliana's disbelief melted into the bemusement that comes when one hears the punchline of a grand comic joke, "Though I guess this means that I owe Zevran twenty sovereigns. Maybe more since we all teased him when he swore up and down Ferelden that he knew when someone had elven heritage." She smoothed down the creases in her front and approached the duo as their argument ended, "What do we do with her?" She motioned at Fiona.

"First, we tell her what an utter tit she is," she started, borrowing vocabulary from Sera's dictionary.

"Amell..."

Fiona watched her son storm away in disgust. It could be worse. In the future, she couldn't even move due to the crystal growing out of her, vibrating so quickly that it was hard to make out her outline among the glow. Amell coughed again, trying to expel the remaining red lyrium she had breathed in during her run through the future. Her fingers held a death grip around Flemeth's locket, no longer too hot to touch, no longer straining to keep the Calling at bay. She resolved to have her post-traumatic meltdown later, somewhere private, maybe in her cabin in the dead of night.

"Well!" Alistair strolled up to the pair, positively glowing in his royal attire. And to think that it took him years of training before he was comfortable in fine silks and cloth, "If it isn't my two favorite ladies in all of Thedas. The years doesn't seem to have touched either of you." He bent at the waist and brushed his lips over Leliana's offered hand, "Sister Nightingale."

"Don't sell yourself short. You are also looking well, King Alistair," she countered, amused.

Alistair waved away her compliment. "Compared to you, I'm a balding, swarthy, ugly man." He turned toward the other of the pair, "And Herald, that is what they are calling you, these days? Imagine my surprise when the news reached me that you gained another title. Actually, wait, I am not surprised," Amell didn't so much as step into his offered embrace as fall exhaustively into it, "I wish I can join you like old times but Anora would find me in three heartbeats and drag me back to the castle by the ear."

"As she should," Amell's muffled voice was barely heard as she had buried her head in his shoulder, thankful that no one was telling her how terrible she and Dorian looked compared to the rest of the Inquisition. Her eyes still contained that red tint, fainter now than before, but still there if one knew what to look for. Her armor and weapons were bloodied and with the initial roar in her blood dwindling down to a small candle flame, all the pains that she could've ignored before are demanding to be heard now. She might be limping.

Alistair released her and held her at arms length, eyeing her critically with a warrior eye before using his thumb to wipe away a blood stain at her temple. "Would the Inquisition need a small escort to Haven?" he offered. Humming, Amell locked eyes with Dorian across the chamber; he side-glanced at the scene of Felix trying to comfort his distraught father, gave a shrug, and winced when he pulled the skin of a barely healing wound.

"We would appreciate it," Amell gratefully replied.

**Dorian**

Before he disappeared, Felix expressed his heartfelt thanks and conveyed his plans to make the trek north back to the Tevinter Imperium. "One last trip before I die," he smiled, wane, pale, blighted, promising, "I'll spread the word of this Inquisition."

"Say only good things," Dorian looked around at the scenery of Haven, trying to imagine it as his new home for the foreseeable future, "I'll be staying here." At Felix's inquiring look, he elaborated, "My job is not yet done - there are still knowledge and talents that I can offer to the Herald." The areas of Venatori activity, for one, and also his research to see if there was any history in the Imperium of a magister named Corypheus.

* * *

"He was a darkspawn claiming to be a magister," she had dragged him into her small cabin, vellum sheets in disarray. They stood before a huge mural: a map of Thedas covered in cross-crossing strings, notes, pictures, scrawled messages and the likes. Measures and countermeasures, theories weaving a web of conspiracy so ridiculous that it might just be true. "A... source of mine claimed that he was killed a year ago. If his story is correct, then Corypheus might not be the only one out there with his specific skill set of powers..." Then, realizing her own lack of manners, she glanced awkwardly in his direction, "Err, forgive me. Would you like something to drink?"

"Anything hot," he had answered after a beat.

Some minutes of kicking aside scrolls, priceless tomes (he must ask to borrow them later, who knows what she had collected in her travels), and weaponry, she had guided him to a chair and offered him the choices of a variety of teas with warm milk, "How are you doing since," she had waved her left hand, bandaged though still leaking green, "the future?" On the bright side, he had acquainted himself with the rest of her inner circle with somewhat stellar results if his standard was that no one tried to outright kill him when he made his introductions. He wondered if the Herald had a list of the types of people one would find in these lands: a circle mage, an apostate, a city elf, a surface dwarf, a qunari, a Seeker, on and on, and declared that she wanted one of each. But, of course, her question implied something different.

His most recent nightmares were seen through a red filter, a flash of a demon's claw here, the fires of a rage demon there, the oppressive atmosphere above him, and the feeling that he had blades dripping with Saar-qamek raked lightly over every inch of his skin. It only itched, at least until the madness overtook him. Then again, she looked as bad as he felt: circles under her eyes that were thankfully back to their normal non-red shade, voice still in that odd timber that came from red lyrium exposure. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" he had lightly inquired.

She had leaned back in her chair, "We'll ask each other," she finally decided, "I've given my report to my advisors, but there's no way I would have anyone else suffer under the burden of how much this Inquisition means to the world." Moodily, she finished the last bit of her drink and set the cup aside, "We understand each other because we lived through it, somehow," she blinked, "with time magic." Her facial markings are stark against her hollowed cheeks. He had seen Sister Nightingale often dropped by with a plate of sandwiches at her doorstep, trying to encourage her to eat.

"A brotherhood between mages that only comes when they travel a year ahead into an apocalyptic future and lived to tell the tale." He took a moment to finish his own drink, "That is not something I expected to ever say in my life."

The Herald of Andraste... Amell had laughed, "No one would. Welcome to the Inquisition."

* * *

After saying farewell to the only other fellow Tevinter mage in all of Haven, he immediately headed back to his cabin that Lady Montilyet had given him and wavered at the threshold. His belongings, scattered across the table, contained valuable information on the inner workings of those cursed Venatori cultists. He briefly debated whether to offer them to the Spymaster or to the Commander.

On one hand, Commander Cullen was an ex-Templar and would recognize the threat of supremacist cult mages: his forces would be swift and brutal in their punishment. On the other hand, Commander Cullen was an ex-Templar and Dorian would rather not face his death at such an ironic end. On one hand, Commander Cullen didn't seem to have that prejudiced hatred against mages: there was no prejudiced hatred apparent when he worked alongside Amell. On the other hand, the qunari had staked a spot right next to the training grounds and Dorian would rather not poke that proverbial dragon until he was more assured of his own safety.

Still, obstacles were mere obstacles - they were placed there to be overcome: he steeled himself and shook out his arms before heading back out. If all else failed, he could still fade step out of any situation he deemed hostile. The air smelled of electricity. Storm clouds gathered in the distance; it will rain tonight. The soldier drills were ever endless, blades knocking against shields, war cries made that drowned out nearby conversations... Save for one loud argument by the tents.

Dorian, with a pile of documents tightly bounded twice by string and ribbon tucked under an arm, glanced towards the source of the noise ...and stopped in his tracks. What held him in his place was a combination of the bystander effect and of morbid curiosity. There was a saying back home that the circle mages of the south often behaved like bitter housewives. Watching the scene before him, he was inclined to agree.

Grand Enchanter Fiona and Madame Vivienne were at each others' throats shouting over one another in a decisively undignified manner. "-danger to all of society! My dear, you must know that there is a reason why they fear our kind-" was drowned out by "-gilded cage. Living in Montsimmard is not the same as-" The most entertaining part of the picture was Amell who stood between them with an increasingly irritated expression, not joining in the squabble but pinching the bridge of her nose and taking deep breaths.

Some paces away, Seeker Cassandra continued her routine warm-ups with her sword and shield, but it was obvious that she was distracted and eventually gave up to move to the Commander's side under the pretenses of discussing regimen schedules. She observed the near brawl with a furrowed brow. "Is this about the decision between conscripting and allying with the mages?" She asked, "The Herald has already made her decision. Madame de la Fer can not change her mind now." The Commander grimaced, fingers resting on the pommel of his sword - but he had yet to move.

"-call out to the Chantry for protection. But the malcontents in the tower thought nothing of this-" "-living in fear and the knowledge that even the Maker does not see you as anything better than a bomb. There is a large voice of power in the Chantry that believes that it would be easier if we were all tranquil. Have you ever-"

"Enough," Amell finally snapped, voice cold as ice. Her command was not bolstered by magic, her volume was still low, but something in her tone threatened to freeze. Fiona took a step back; Vivienne held her ground, but she crossed her arms in a defensive maneuver. "Quiet. Both of you are _wrong_."

"The number of allied mages in Haven is making some of my men uneasy. It would be easier to monitor them if they were conscripted," Commander Cullen muttered, shaking his head. "Not to mention word of their once indentured status under a Tevinter Magister had spread among the other refugees before they even arrived. It does not bode well for future hopes of cooperation." He sighed, "However, I trust her judgment even if I had preferred other methods."

"-mess started from the fundamentals of a system set in place centuries ago. Don't argue with me on this, Madame Vivienne. It was inherently wrong. The rebellion was an inevitability the moment the Chantry utilized the Rite of Tranquility as a form of punishment because it takes only one person from high command to start using it excessively on his or her charges. If you want another war, if you want that same fear, then return to the status quo. If not, then something has to change." He had the impression that Amell rarely displayed passionate emotions, therefore such palpating anger from this distance was... intimidating. And yet, she did not shout or scream - scathing, yes, and barely contained.

Dorian strode forward and stopped when he reached the Commander's side, "Is it so strange to see mages fight?" He asked rhetorically as the man peered at him and gave a stiff greeting. "Though this is one step above a cat-fight. At least no one threw a gauntlet. Or a spell," he added as an afterthought. "For you, Commander," he offered his collection of documents, "Information on the Venatori. I would recommend five days and five nights to peruse it in its entirety. It's a monster."

Ignoring the exchange, Cassandra watched the altercation where Amell still wholly dominated with her low burning rage. "And _you_," the Herald turned towards the elven mage, words dripping with vitriol, "Don't think that I've forgotten what you've done. If I get so much of a whisper, a hint, of anyone who daring to try to go against the Inquisition and contact the Venatori, I will _burn _them."

Then, she sighed. Her fury dissipated immediately like a sputtering candle, replaced by exhaustion. She made her way towards them, leaving the two mages behind silent, wiping her face with a hand, stepping lightly like an elf across snow, almost passing them before she registered their position.

She blinked, as if waking up from a dream, and greeted them each with a slight bow, "Seeker. Commander. Dorian. Bull."

"Boss," a low baritone rumbled above his left shoulder. Dorian's heart almost stopped. He spun on his heels and leaped back, his remaining dignity still intact only due to the fact that both the Commander and Seeker Cassandra were also visibly perturbed by the qunari's nearness. He shouldn't be surprised, having heard stories of the talents of the Ben-Hassrath whispered fearfully through the Tevinter Imperium since he was a child.

"Venhedis," he cursed, trying to tamper down the magic that danced on his fingers, and demanded, "How long were you standing there?"

Iron Bull side-glanced towards Amell, who had ducked her head, obviously trying to curb her own laughter. When she finally straightened, the corners of her mouth still twitching, and when all hearts slowed to normal, the qunari winked at her, which shouldn't be possible for someone who wore an eyepatch, "Long enough." Shaking her head, Amell offered the qunari a lazy salute and glided past, one arms extended, fingers gently skimming the wood of the outer stronghold walls.

Her gait was unnaturally smooth and slow: the nightmares still plagued her. (He had packed away sleeping medication into his belongings - perhaps she would find them to be of use.) The Commander's eyes followed her form until she turned left and disappeared past the open gates, his expression... That was not prejudiced hatred: far from it. Dorian felt his eyebrows rise into his hairline as he watched Commander Cullen reluctantly turned his gaze when Iron Bull engaged the Seeker in a conversation.

Oh. Dorian thought. _Oh._

**Cassandra**

* * *

Short term exposure includes loosening of mental faculties and rationality within the hour. Forced prolonged contact allows red lyrium to insert itself through the skin into the blood and grow parasitically, rendering victim motionless but still living for a minimum of a year. Otherwise, resistance to red lyrium can be slowly built through blood transfusions and skin grafts from more resistant persons (refer to Section B: Sister Nightingale).

* * *

The packet had passed through several people before it reached her, wrinkled at the edges, ink blotches between loopy handwriting gave one the impression that the writer had paused one too many times with the pen tip still on the vellum. Methodically composed as if tranquil, the Herald's report was not comforting despite its lack of emotion, more so _due _to its lack of emotion. Though she never verbally spoke of what had happened in the future, (refused to when questioned, having pointed out that her written word should suffice,) many things were implied between the lines: a future so horrific it was hard to imagine - land so desolate there were not enough people in Thedas for all the rampaging fade creatures on this side of the veil to possess.

Small deposits and red templar camps popped up like embrium as the Herald's group traveled from rift to rift across the continent - closing one small tear at a time. The increasing number of red lyrium nodes spotted in and around the Hinterlands by Sister Leliana's faithful scouts were treated as disquieting premonitions. The Inquisition's reputation and power were only just beginning to spread into daily household conversation, its muscles just beginning to flex. But was its progress fast enough? The future was catching up at an alarming rate.

Commander Cullen's office door was open. The man was inside the room sitting behind his desk, rolling a small bottle of lyrium between his fingers, staring at it with a deep crease between his eyebrows. She rapped her knuckles on the wall. Noticing her presence, he stood and bowed low, "Cassandra. What can I do for you?" Her heels clicked against the floor as she strolled to the only window of the room. A bookcase stood in the darkest corner, a few torches offered barely enough light for one to work, and a large armchair was seated opposite of him across the desk, a thick blanket was draped over its back. For a moment, she silently scrutinized his condition: his skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat and his eyes a bit darker as his gaze darted between her and the bottle he had set to the side.

"You haven't been taking it?" She measuredly asked, reaching for the bottle, watching him flinch as she picked it up and shook it, hearing the contents swish in the glass.

His line of sight shifted to over her shoulder, "I have been considering the pros and cons of weaning myself off of the doses," he finally admitted, running a hand through his hair, a habit he had picked up from the Herald. "You've read her account about the things she had faced in Redcliffe Castle and what red lyrium can do to a person," he pointed toward the dossier still clenched in her hands, "our lyrium supply lines are strong but they aren't as secured as I would wish. It would be very easy for anyone to slip something in en route."

The north east winds entered the room, ruffling some of his loose papers, bringing in the noise of daytime activities of Haven. Swords clashed onto shields. The cries of Leliana's ravens echoed across the landscape as they hovered low over the ice. Below on a field of snow and rock outcroppings, the Herald was animatedly discussing magical theory with Solas, using a tree as a prop to cast different variations of the Barrier spell. Cassandra frowned, "Have you told anyone else about your fears and what you intend to do?"

"No," Cullen adamantly refused the implied suggestion, "I don't need to worry the others. It's my own past that I'm facing and I'm still trying to decide whether to take this step," he pushed his chair back and leaned against the wall, supporting his weight with an outstretched arm, "I'm not part of the Templar Order, not since Kirkwall. I shouldn't be relying on the doses anymore. I can't tell her," he muttered, glancing outside with an expression of longing so strong that she felt as though she was intruding upon an intimate moment and turned away, "she already has enough on her mind."

There had been small changes in the Herald's behavior in the aftermath of securing an alliance with the rebel mages. Both elves from the expedition had accepted her increased mother-henning in the form of repeated inquiries on their health and prolonged scrutiny with varying degrees of patience. Without any context, her sudden friendship with a Tevinter Altus mage could be interpreted as something more malevolent. Last night, before the war council disbanded with more work to be had, before leaving, she had wordlessly tucked a sprig of Andraste's Grace into Leliana's hood.

"Some evenings, she sleeps on that chair," Cullen motioned at the plush armchair, "she seeks me out and watches me work when I'm alone. She says nothing other than asking if I'm bothered by her. She stays. I don't know why she," he trailed off and then smiled gently at an unseen memory, "I don't push her." Because that trust so tenuous was a gift not easily given. Because it was his office that was the only true sanctuary where she could seek her version of escapism from prying eyes. Cassandra tried imagining the Herald's figure folded in the armchair, breaths barely heard, dozing off in the bleak moonlight as Cullen watched over her unguarded form.

Immediately following her rise to fame, the Hero of Ferelden was the favorite subject of gossipers. Of course, whenever someone is placed on a pedestal by one half of the general public, the other half tries to bring her down. She suffered through various imagined scandals and unfounded rumors - she sacrificed an entire Dalish clan to gain the favor of a werewolf pack, she had allied herself with a darkspawn emissary that had a will of its own to cement her promotion as Warden-Commander, the stories descend further into absolute absurdity.

The largest circulating rumors were the ones that speculated on her romantic life. Did she give her heart to an Antivan assassin or an Orlesian bard? Could she have been crowned Queen of Ferelden alongside King Alistair if she had been nobility? Even as the Herald, with nothing else to do, the people of Haven engaged in idle talk. Blackwall's admiring looks towards her were not missed, neither were Iron Bull's subtly flirtatious and crass comments. Sera preened under the Herald's attentions. Even Lady Josephine's perfected outer diplomatic mask occasionally fell when in her presence. "You need that story," Varric had chided her when Cassandra had expressed her disgust at the slander during one of the Inner Circle's missions to a mountaintop outpost camp in the Storm Coast, "no need to condone them as distractions against duty, think of them as... distractions against the tragedy. Romance makes people lighter. There's a hole in the sky, Seeker. Live and let live. Who doesn't want to hear about love? Of course, we all know the truth," he then wiggled his eyebrows and winked. "Curly had called dibs a long time ago."

Inwardly, Cassandra guiltily consented that before she had formed the Inquisition and met the woman, when stories of the Hero of Ferelden reached even her, in her most idle moments, she had also wondered, daydreamed, and made up tales of fancy.

A sound of glass shattering against the wall jolted her from her thoughts; instinct almost had her draw her sword before she blinked out of automation. A broken bottle of lyrium on the far side of the room, a long blue stain dripping downward through the cracks between the stones, the glass pieces gleamed in the sunlight like broken diamonds. Cullen's jaw was set; he flexed his gloved hand and let out a long breath. He took a few seconds to compose himself, "To work," he sighed, lowering his throwing arm, "I'll clean that up later after I..." swallowing his words, he placed a hand on his stack of papers and sat down, leafing through some notes that detailed the most recent trebuchet calibrations.

"I'll send someone to deal with it," Cassandra offered, planning to also include a decent hot meal with the messenger. Though not a betting woman, she would not hesitate to put down five gold coins on the Commander having not eaten today. "I hope you aren't too overworked?"

Cullen shook his head, smiling ruefully, "Not as much as I had feared. Iron Bull was correct. The number of actual skirmishes between mages and templars in Haven pales in comparison to my projected numbers." He dipped a quill tip into the inkwell and started editing a final report to a war table operation. "Perceptive man, The Iron Bull, eloquent when he wishes to be" he mused, "I can almost see why his clients referred to him as the Gentleman Beast."

* * *

"I'm saying that this tentative peace was inspired by both of you," the qunari had explained, inclining his head towards Grand Enchanter Fiona who was still smarting from the not-so delicate threat made by the Herald and then towards the back of Madame Vivienne who had all but stormed away to her alcove in the Chantry, "People look at the Inquisition and think, 'if the Commander and the Herald, two sides of the opposing war, could work together, then I can too extend a hand of friendship across the battle lines.'" Iron Bull grinned widely, stretching his facial scars white, "you're a role model, Commander Cullen."

* * *

She dusted dirt off of her armor and pushed herself off the wall. Glass pieces crunched under her boots; she was careful to avoid the puddle of lyrium gathered along the dips in the flooring. Before she fully made her exit, the sound of a pen nib scratching parchment momentarily stopped. "How did Sister Nightingale receive the news about the Inquisition offering an alliance with the mages?" Cullen inquired, as the question drifted into his head. "She didn't seem upset when Amell announced her final verdict."

Cassandra gave an uncharacteristic snort, "Sister Leliana happily supported the Herald's choice. I," she lingered at the frame, one hand on the doorknob, as she admitted, "am also slowly beginning to see the benefits of an alliance over conscription." She considered saying more: something about the dangers of removing oneself from lyrium dependency, about his slow courting method with the Herald, about the Inquisition's exponential growth as a military organization. Instead, she simply added, "Do try to get some rest, Cullen. We will be preparing to close the Breach tomorrow at first daylight."


	6. Chapter 6

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Josephine**

Few people have seen the Herald close a rift so it was not a surprise that when word had spread throughout the camps that preparations were being made to seal the Breach once and for all, that a crowd had gathered around the Temple by midday despite warnings and attempts to stop the growing numbers. Civilians pushed behind the guards and peeked over shoulders, whispering among themselves by the ruins as they pointed at the petrified remnants of the Conclave explosion victims (still in prayer) that still dotted the area, at the red lyrium crystals glowing on the slope side, and at the green, swirling portal that hung in the air, small tendrils wrapped around the geometry, eerily silent. From her vantage point on the high balcony, Josephine spotted members of the Inner Circle among the sea of faces. Commander Cullen observed in the upper walkway, arms folded, motionless, while the Herald's mabari waited at attention by his feet. Leliana crouched on the opposite roof, a raven on each shoulder.

Worried for their audience's safety, Seeker Cassandra checked the wards one last time as Solas debriefed the mages lined uniformly by the pillars. The warrior raised her sword. As one, a multitude of staff blades stabbed the ground, the additional magic flowing towards the Herald bolstered her as she pushed past the fade aura. She raised her left hand, outstretched palm spitting out green rays of light that pierced through the veil and connected with the centerfold, blindingly bright. Straining against an invisible force, her fingers slowly curled in; a thrum echoed as the rift slowly closed.

The Herald jerked her arm back, shattering the connection as the Breach folded over itself. A shockwave ripped outward, throwing everyone within the vicinity onto their backs. Even Josephine was forced to brace herself when she felt the surrounding air violently shift. Covering her eyes from the falling debris, coughing from the smoke, she leaned forward and tried to see. The ensuing hush was broken by the occasional uneasy murmur. As the dust settled, she could make out a silhouette gingerly trying to stand up.

Seeker Cassandra rushed towards the Herald, hooked an arm under hers, and hauled her to her feet - warily watching as the other woman stumbled once, twice, and finally straightened on her own. It was over.

Cheers erupted from all corners of the clearing, traveling down the mountain side through the path back to Haven. One man pulled out a casket of mead; another pulled out a barrel of wine; within minutes, the alcohol flowed like a flooded river. People broke off into groups, some dancing, laughing, and crying, others gave their heartfelt thanks to the Herald who accepted the words of gratitude with tired grace.

Josephine stepped outside just as the last of the well-wishers departed, close enough to hear Amell give an audible sigh of relief as she rolled her shoulders to check for any lingering aches and pains. "I suspect the celebrations are going to last till tomorrow morning," the Antivan mused, delicately stepping over fade shard remnants on the ground. Acknowledging her words, Amell hummed but did not turn. Instead, she traced a finger along the raised edge of the closed rift, watching in fascination as her mark and and the scar shuddered. Solas had said that even closed, it would take weeks for the ambient magic in this dimension to fully erase the healed tear. "Will you join them? You deserve it, Amell."

Sounds of revelries reached their ears - the departing soldiers started singing the famous ballad of Andraste's Mabari. In the distance, fires were lit for a coming feast; the smoke coiled and rose over the hills and trees. Amell tilted her head in thought, pushing her hair back, "Varric told me that there were some drinks waiting for me at the Tavern. But, I'm not one for parties." Rubbing her hands together, she turned on her heels and began the long trek down the path leading to the village below, "I try to avoid them when I can but this one seems to be one that I can't escape from." After a beat, Josephine followed suit.

The distant songs grew muffled as they reached the treeline; the wind picked up as they entered the valley. Their pace quickened into a brisk walk, steps slowed by the growing snowdrifts that scattered on the road. "But you've attended many of King Alistair's fetes," she countered as Haven's lights grew ever closer. "Or so his court says."

Amell clicked her tongue, "It was more like trying to make sure the lout doesn't embarrass himself in front of his political enemies. You wouldn't believe how many illusions I've had to weave whenever he inappropriately laughed at one comment or another. He's better now." An amused grin lit up her features, "It says a lot when someone relies on me, of all people, to navigate through the Ferelden version of The Game." Then, as the songbirds quieted as they drew near their nests, her joviality faded, "I can't stop thinking of what needs to be done," she released a gust of breath, admitting, "I can't relax. Finding the others might do me some good."

Even with the Breach closed, the Inquisition still faced many loose ends that must be pursued. The Herald had been adamant in her search for Warden-Commander Clarel: with the alternate future implicating her as an ally to the Elder One, her days are numbered. Josephine could already imagine the work waiting for her at her desk. Updates need to be sent to their agents and allies in the far reaches of the continent. The civil war in Orlais was reaching a fervor that forced the three warring powers to mobilize their armies, men, and spies. An informer had forwarded the Ambassador evidence on what could be an attempt on Empress Celene's life. Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons had sent an invite to the Inquisition to attend the Empress's peace talks that would be held later in the season.

Was the Organization ready to take these next steps?

The pair separated at a fork in the road. Amell offered a farewell and a shallow curtsy before taking the path north, perhaps to her friends waiting in the Tavern or to solitude in her cabin, her plans for the night a mystery.

In high spirits, Josephine headed south, slowing as she reached a gathering where she spotted Adan merrily finishing a tankard of beer and Seggrit accepting a bowl of vegetable stew from the cook. The air smelled of spices and apple wood. A turning leg of ram roasted over the open camp fire, glistening from the rendering fat that continued to circle around the charred skin and sink back into the meat. A pair of hands offered her a plate of candied fruits and nuts. Another plate piled with cornbread was passed around. This was not the lush banquets she had attended in Antiva and Orlais, but the celebration held its own rustic charm and she found herself lingering instead of looking for Leliana like she had originally planned. A musician brought out a lute and began to play arpeggios rising and falling through the scale. The children began to dance.

There was laughter. Toasts were made to those in the Inquisition and to those dead from the Conclave explosion. Stories were exchanged between men and women of all backgrounds. And then...

And then...

The bells tolled from the watchtower. Faces tilted up, smiles sliding off like oil over wet stone. Echoing across the mountain side, only realized when the hush had fell over all of Haven, was the sound of marching silverite boots and a lone war horn. Small torch lights emerged from the dips between the peaks and slowly cut down a path down the far end of the Frostbacks. The villagers scrambled to their feet. Instincts yelled at them to flee - there was an unspeakable danger approaching. The new arrival felt hostile, it felt cold: "it sings," a newly arrived dwarf recruit described as people stood up, "like red lyrium."

The bells tolled. The advisors had already gathered at the front gates by the time the Herald and Seeker Cassandra appeared: the former, eyes closed, warding off a migraine and latter demanding answers. The news the Commander gave had his closest soldiers shifting uneasily in their ready stance: the massive force on the far slope, with its bulk of troops still on the other side of the mountain, was under no banner.

Someone pounded on the gates, pleading to be let in. A young man named Cole, daggers dripping in blood, stumbled through with news of the red templars and the Elder One spilling off his tongue as though he couldn't contain them.

Had it not been for the visible hostile army heading in their direction, large enough that one could make out glints of red refracted by their own torch lights, Cole would've immediately been deemed insane and dangerous and taken in as an unstable prisoner. With so little time left, he did not wait for a response to his warnings and instead reached out, expression partially hidden by his wide-brim hat, "Please remember," he whispered, "All roads lead to-" fingertips danced lightly over the Herald's red pendant.

"Darkspawn," she finished the catechism without thought. Immediately, she stiffened, unsettled, dual grey eyes piercing through a veil of pain, and assessed the curious man, decidedly off in behavior and appearance. She started to ask, "But how would you..." but her senses distracted her; her head snapped up, focusing on the distant cliffs. "Corruption," she hissed, the mark on her palm flickered bright, "the Elder One," watching the top of the snow-caps where two figures emerged, standing apart from the standard foot soldier, overlooking the march down the mountain trail.

Commander Cullen's eyes narrowed, "Samson," he muttered darkly, drawing his sword. The pair exchanged a look that lasted a heartbeat long. Then, they simultaneously turned back to the gates where long lines of armored men and women waited, postures straight and statuesque.

The Herald released a breath, "Even with the alliance," she critically surveyed the Inquisition troops, "we don't have enough power to match them." She flicked a wrist toward the marching invasion, "However, they aren't using ranged weaponry."

"We will move the fight to their position," the Commander continued her train of thought, expression grim, jaw clenched, "I hope the trebuchets would be enough." An understanding was reached in the uneasy silence that stretched between them as they considered the odds that were stacked against Haven. Before she stepped away, his hand clasped her shoulder as he pulled her close, "Herald," heedless of their audience, refused to let go until he forced eye contact, and parted with message, "be careful." After a long pause and small nod in response, after she vanished, leaving behind a lingering blue frost in the air, he turned, took a deep breath, and rallied his troops.

The Inquisition banner rose as the sound of swords being drawn and shields knocking against metal rang in the air. The Inquisition's war horn sounded, dual low tones shook the hearts within fragile rib cages, soaring over the din of war cries and the loud echo of flying boulders and triggered avalanches. Valuables were swept off tables and into burlap sacks. Footsteps pounded over the embers of dying campfires. A wave of people retreated farther and farther inward until they slammed against the Chantry doors. The twang of another trebuchet releasing its load reverberated in her ears.

The scouts cheered as another boulder hit its mark, burying another flank of the opposition under a small hill of snow and ice. "You are not a battlemaster, Josie," Leliana had warned as the Commander's soldiers mobilized, "Evacuate the young and weak if you must, but do not risk yourself." That was before swords and red lyrium armor that hung like a second skin tore down people and shields alike as if they were paper. That was before smoke so thick it seemed to have a solid form obscured the light from the moon.

That was before the dragon attacked. Despite the Herald's account of the future hinting at a monstrous beast alike in power to an archedemon that was under the thrall of the Elder One, the Spymaster had not expected the dragon.

No one had expected the dragon.

She felt the dragon's red lyrium song before she heard it. She heard the dragon's scream before she spotted its massive form aloft in the sky. The night choked with the smell of burning pine, greedily eating upwards to the shingled rooftops, hopping from house to house. Another wave of fire blocked off the eastern passage to the training courtyard. It smelled of cooked meat, hairs, and fabric.

Josephine had Minaeve's hand in a death grip as they alternated between sprinting through the wreckage and dodging the red templars' line of sight. The mage scholar was limping behind, empty of mana after successfully freezing one of their pursuers, a hand pressed over an open wound on her side, a consequence of not sidestepping a swing from a greatsword in time. The entire engagement had lasted less than two seconds. It had felt like an eternity. Already her nerves were feeling raw from over stimulation.

Everything occurred in a split-second basis. The invasion had overwhelmed the defenders and poured into the village, pouncing on any villager that still remained in the area. The last of her daggers, an initiation gift when she had dabbled in the bardic arts in Orlais, were somewhere behind her, embedded through the horizontal slit of a templar helmet. The Chantry was still far away, anything could happen between the precious seconds it took to run from her position to the open doors. She could hear her own breath and pounding heart. Her eyes struggled to compensate both for the dark night and the bright fires. Her blood pounded hard in her ears, covering up the screams of those being cut down by the knights and the guards...

An enemy emerged from the fires and flanked their left side, a behemoth like creature, more lyrium than man, loomed over them with its arms extended and claws flexed. Josephine jumped back, dragging the Minaeve behind her: the horror did not look like it was built to run, she might be fast enough to fake a left and flee...

Josephine felt a flash of cold at the nape of her neck. A shadowed figure leaped up, stepping on the outgrowths on the monster's back and plunged a sword hilt deep into its crest. Minaeve screamed. The horror buckled; Amell's silhouette fell into view as she twisted the blade and channeled fire down to the tip - a sickening sound erupted as organs, muscles, and crystallized skin ripped and tore. Red lyrium broke off of the massive body and fell off in large chunks, shattering as they hit the ground. The red templar horror bowed and collapsed - the ground vibrated at his weight.

Amell yanked the sword free and stepped off of the corpse, casually flicking blood off of her weapon. She turned towards Josephine but didn't move; instead she watched the Ambassador warily as if afraid - Josephine blinked - afraid that the diplomat and her elven mage companion would run back into danger at the sight of her.

And what a sight it was: if Josephine hadn't had any experience with death and blood, she might have descended into hysteria that would make an Orlesian noble green. Amell's face had locked into an expression that was as grim as it was unreadable, but her dilated pupils betrayed her and her breath was fast. Her pulse jumped at the junction between her jawline and neck. Her arms were littered with burns and shallow scratches. It was hard to tell whether the majority of the blood covering her was her own or someone else's. It has been a while since Josephine had been a bard, but she can still recognize the people who are very, very used to killing and who are very, very good at it.

Amell's head snapped up. A screech echoed above them as they felt the pressing air currents from large wings; the dragon banked and turned, body arching as it circled the east watchtower, its red eyes fixed on their form. The red templars, all but satiated by their bloodlust, turned their attention towards the three remaining survivors outside the Chantry doors. The Herald gave one last glance toward Josephine and Minaeve.

"Go."

Josephine obeyed on shaky legs as the Herald turned around, sword held parallel to the ground, and walked calmly towards the advancing army.

**Cullen**

Templars he had known and fought alongside; the remnants of the Order he had left. A man he had thought was one of his dearest friends, who shared his quarters in Kirkwall, whom he considered to be a close confidante, who turned to the song of red lyrium and willingly submitted to the command of the Elder One. A rogue stranger who spoke phrases designed to unsettle and reveal secrets, half-carrying the mortally wounded form of Chancellor Roderick - no matter whether or not the Inquisition will stand after the invasion, the elder man will not make the night. The Chantry doors closed behind the Herald who staggered in, hands faintly glowing as she healed her hundreds of small cuts that littered her skin. She slumped against a column, blood clumped hair gathered over one shoulder, hand trembling as she reached for a healing potion in her pack.

To think, that if Cassandra had not recruited him into the Inquisition and if he had not accepted the position of Commander of the troops, would he had been a monster, a mindless soldier uncaring of the innocent blood that stained his boots, a lieutenant along with Samson, overlooking the fall of Haven? "I didn't expect to see you again," Amell had said, back when their burdens though heavy did not have that sense of futility of action and surety of death, back when the sun shined bright and the air did not smell of ash, "I always thought that if we were to ever meet again, it would be on opposite sides on a hill of swords."

Farther in the Chantry huddled what remained of the town, people who watched farms, fields, and friends burn. Haven was no fortress; it was a dead end for a cornered animal - hopefully one that could scratch and bite back hard enough for the momentum of the Elder One's army to falter - and maybe someone other organization, some other hero and some other band of advisors and companions would have better luck.

Salvation came in the form of a vision given by a dying man.

Grand Chancellor Roderick Asignon had been the ever reliable thorn in the Inquisition's side. There was never a day when he wouldn't sneer at their decisions, where he wouldn't threaten to draft a letter to the upper echelons of the Chantry demanding for their dissolution, when he would curse the Maker's wrath upon them all. But he was harmless if not annoying, "No need to make a martyr out of him," Lady Ambassador had proposed, when the advisors had discussed the options on how to deal with him, flourishing her pen, "our relations with the Chantry cannot change drastically by his word alone, not when we have Mother Giselle supporting our side. Just as long as we make sure he does not leave the grounds."

It was difficult to equate the once proud man to the one now who looked as though a slight wind can blow him over. Every breath that the Chancellor took rattled; fragile bones were barely holding up his limp body. His eyes were outlined in bruises, his lips had no color, it was impossible to tell that the robes that he wore once were partly white. But, he could still talk and that was enough to for him to part with a secret, "has Andraste blessed me with the vision when all the others who know of it are dead from the Conclave? Herald, I remember, years ago," haltingly given between painful gasps when he inadvertently pulled against the hole in his stomach as he stood, "a passage from the back of the Chantry leading into the mountains... It has been so long ago when I took the summer pilgrimage..."

"Hope flies on small wings," the boy added from beneath his brimmed hat as he urged the Chancellor to take a step forward, "paper thin wings. But still it comes."

"A way out?" Amell murmured, coughing into a hand, "I thought the reavers had collapsed the tunnels when I first found the Temple." She grimaced at the droplets of blood staining her left palm and tried to wipe them off, instead smearing the red over the green rune. The walls trembled. One of the many children in the back rooms began crying, loud wails that smothered any other sounds of grief. The barred doors of the Chantry shook ominously on its hinges as forces battered against the other side, "Well. If the Elder One wants me," she decided, voice wavering as she poured a regeneration potion over an open gash on her shoulder, "then I hope he can handle me."

Pale skin previously marred by three claw marks gradually closed over as if they were never there to begin with. She coughed again, hacking ones, violent enough that she almost doubled over: the stone floor is suddenly speckled with red. Stepping away from the Chancellor who was beginning to mutter the Chant of Light feverishly under his breath, Cullen gently guided her back to her feet. The space between her words implied more than what she said - his duties as a Commander to the Herald warred with his devotion as Cullen to Amell, "It's possible to reload the trebuchets before the majority of their forces arrive, but your internal injuries will hinder you," he pressed a gloved hand over her torso, watching her closely to ascertain where his touches caused her to flinch.

"I can still fight." She fingered the tattered cloth beneath her broken chain mail, shrugging the rags back over her shoulder, "the Elder One is a darkspawn. He controls the dragon... Modified archdemon... Whatever it is. I'm a grey warden. It should be enough. It has to be enough." Taking a deep breath, she fiddled with her sleeves and checked the bandaged grip on her sword, "I can distract him, at the very least: buy the Inquisition time to escape and fight for another day."

His tone straddled the line between accusatory and desperate, "And what about the Inquisition's Herald?" She was the Hero of Ferelden, Ruler of Vigil's Keep, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Commander of the Grey. She was going to walk back out there alone and launch the remaining trebuchets that would bury the entire town in snow. "What of your escape?" He demanded, feeling his heart sink when she swallowed - because they both knew the truth.

"I trust Nathaniel Howe to guide the Ferelden Wardens in my stead. Sister Leliana would know who to contact should I... perish. Please tell them I am sorry," she whispered, shifting her weight from side to side.

"Amell," he pleaded, willing his voice not to crack in grief. "You..." _can't. _

A hand cupped his cheek, she raised her eyes (grey, always grey, the desire demon never managed to replicate the exact shade) and searched his own,"Cullen," he didn't move as her fingers softly stroked his cheek, dragging down along his jawline. She chewed on her lower lip as she struggled to maintain eye contact, a red flush rising from her neckline, "I lo- I... I wish we had more time together. Maybe we could've-" Without warning, she leaned forward on her toes and pressed her lips to his, right where his scar met his mouth.

He inwardly reeled from the sensation - it has been so long since he longed for more than just casual brushes of their hands or the many almosts that they shared during the nights when she let her guard down. But never had he expected the moment when he finally would receive a physical sign of affection from her to be when... When she was not expecting to come back. After eleven years thinking about her, even longer admiring her, and just when they finally reunite under the Maker's will, she was torn from his grasp, even when, this time, he desperately tried to hold onto her. He wanted to shield her from world, despite knowing how capable she was (a templar always protected his mage). He wanted... He reached out, but she stepped back and turned her head to the side, the fire light shined on her stricken face.

Cullen stared at her, memorizing the way her features twist in grim anticipation of the terrors that laid beyond the doors. He cleared his throat, a dead weight sinking into his chest, "Once we reach the treeline, we'll shoot a flare," he managed to choke out, "Amell, make them fear you." A small flicker of a smile danced across her face. Not trusting his own control (he will beg her to flee with them if he lingered), he abruptly turned, ordering his forces that stood to guard the door to retreat back into the inner chambers.

"Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts," the boy muttered, knees shaking as he struggled to hold up the nearly dead weight of the Chancellor, as the sounds of the double doors opened and a wave of magic flooded the area just as the doors closed behind her. "Let mine be the last sacrifice."

Her barrier arced over the Chantry, enveloping the structure in a faint tint of green. Her magic had always felt like an intangible pressure bearing down on the senses, a faint roar in his ears, the smell of ozone heady in the air. The Waking Sea in the summer currents - the rise and fall of its tide - its vastness. This was nothing like her bursts of spells that she had used initially at the start of the invasion against Haven - this was almost a force of nature. He had expected her magic's song to change since she had left Kinloch Hold, he had expected it to evolve, certainly, but not like this.

"Faith in her. Faith in the impossible." Chancellor Roderick mumbled as his eyes fluttered shut as he slowly hobbled, assisted by the boy, down the hallway. "Maker guide the Herald, judge her worthy of your favor, bring salvation to your people."

**Cole**

In mind and not voice, people are louder the closer they approach death. The crowd dodges the pitch black shadows like it was an entity that would grab the weak and the wounded, snatch them from their mothers' hold - a hungry wolf that was willing to withstand some desperate beatings to drag a leg, an arm, a torso, back into its den. He is swept away by the tide of bodies and mourning cries, all pressing down, suffocating his reach.

The man he holds bears regrets like a liquid form, fearing that they would bubble over and spill if he acknowledges them - his life is held by the faintest spider silk threads, pulled taut through stubborn will alone. A map of their escape is shaped by his words - rough and weary, abrasive on smooth skin - he cares not of the pitying looks from his fellows; he can not see them in the poor light.

Time itself has no meaning to Cole - he counts in changes and hurts, in cracks within white souls that normal eyes cannot comprehend. But he can tell its passage, roughly, in the number of people shivering and the increasing frequency a small group stops as one of their own stumbles over a dip in the path, a small pebble poking out of the dirt, or just their own two feet and bone-set exhaustion.

The trees shrink into shrubbery and then to lichen on grey boulders and still they are encouraged, commanded, to climb. But their boots are already worn down to the barest soles, some heels are already beginning to bleed, purple from frostbite, but they refused to stop and die. The ground tremble beneath their feet. Behind them, a final surge of snow and ice buries the town that had burned. Ahead, the mountains do not invite them with open arms.

The Elder One does not follow them, the remains of his army as pieces of red lyrium, his archdemon that is not an archdemon wounded but at his side. He still angers, rage simmering in an uncontrollable hunger for godhood that would consume himself if he is not careful. _Corypheus_, the wind whispers, faint and weak. His mages were stolen from him. He has lost the bulk of his templars. He has accomplished nothing. He has an orb and it is not enough. He curses in the language of his homeland, made docile by the passing ages filled with conquests and re-conquests.

A flint strikes hard enough to conjure meager sparks - hands block the growing embers from the biting wind. People shuffled closer to the fire with offerings of wood. Brittle fingers sets up tents, rows and rows that will house broken families. Heads duck under wool blankets, weaved with whispers of blessings, and do not resurface. Frustration festers in idleness - he flits from person to person and is helplessly limited on what he can do by what he has at his disposal - nothing but a promise of quick death.

Regret has many flavors. The scouts should not have been pulled back from their positions when they started dying at their posts. Vigilance should have not faltered. Red lyrium should have never seen the light of day. Elven artifacts should never land in the greedy hands of a human. Should haves do not occur with the right amount of hindsight.

If Cole strains his ears, he could hear the faint tune, hummed in the rhythm of steps sinking into the snow, evoking the memories of a past before the Inquisition, before the rebuilding of the wardens, before the Fifth Blight, when a mage and a templar conversed quietly in the empty halls of Kinloch Hold. She is far away; she is close enough.

Staring at a makeshift table of reports and maps under a half torn awning, Commander Cullen's back is straight, despite the fact that he is inwardly shattering into a thousand pieces: _Maker, I beg you not to take her away from me. I am your faithful servant and this is my only plea. Forgive my weakness, I do not know if I have the strength to continue should I find her.._. He does not hear the song that reaches for him, but he does pivot the moment he feels the hand on his shoulder. Hand on the pommel of his sword, he stares at Cole wildly, then suspiciously, "Do I know you?"

Cole scurries back but maintains eye contact. Her words, confessions, musings, hallucinations, were threatening to spill out of his mouth with her Ferelden lilt, but he swallows them back. "She's not dead."


	7. Chapter 7

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Amell**

_What happens when you become a war refugee? _

_You walk._

Her pants were soaked: above the knees with blood and below the knees with snow. The numbness in her extremities persisted no matter how hard she rubbed her skin or how violently she shivered in the face of the relentless eastern wind, so loud that the sounds of her boots sinking into the snow with each laborious step were all but smothered. Her scarf that covered her face had hardened from her breath and blood. Her magic had retreated deep into her body, prioritizing the need to maintain her inner temperature at the low cutoff of functionality, battling against cold that had settled into her bones and danced around her core, fleeting touches like the fingers of death.

She didn't dare stop, but she did chance a look back. Nothing. Nothing but her faint shadow rising to meet her from the wasteland. There was some acknowledgment within her sluggish mind that this might be where she will die, alone and frozen between jagged peaks, but she couldn't conjure up the energy to feel anything more passionate than vague acceptance.

That same disconnect from emotions, that near absence of feeling, no more than a slight constriction in her chest, had occurred twice before in her life. Once on the day of her Harrowing and subsequent conscription into the Grey Warden ranks, when she had learned of Jowan's betrayal and faced the very likely threat of a year locked in the Aeonar... And once so, so long ago.

In the History section of the Kinloch Hold library, there is a large tome a hand-span thick, hiding between a chronology of the Pentaghast family alliances since the Blessed Age and the tragic biography of the life and lies of Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden, titled _The Noble and Venerated Families of the Free Marches. _The cover smelled of old leather, sewn together and embossed with small precious gems. Each illuminated page was decorated in gold, silver, and vibrant inks; each picture drawn with a loving and dedicated hand.

On the page that showcased the various family crests: one in particular had stood out - two geometric birds intertwined at their claws, their wings extended upwards, mimicking a city skyline - it matched the carving on her rune stone pendant, the one possession that accompanied her when she had first arrived at Kinloch Hold. She could not remember a life before the Circle: her earliest memory was playing with herself at the foot of First Enchanter (then Senior Enchanter) Irving's mahogany desk, coaxing bits of ice through her fingertips and encouraging the snowflakes to dance.

Amell... Did she have relations? It was hard to determine: albeit the illustrator had painstakingly drawn out various family trees spanning several generations back, with each name included with a small portrait, the Amell family members had no discernible features save for the consistent black hair and grey eyes. Was that enough? Maybe, just maybe, she has a family? A loving one? A stern one? One would have invested and cared for her success? She had twirled a strand of hair around her finger and tucked it behind an ear, - black hair, grey eyes - trying to imagine a mother and a father, maybe even brothers and sisters. The tome was an old edition - that meant that these people: Aristide, Fausten, Damion, Revka, Leandra, Gamlen... could be her aunts and uncles, maybe parents... maybe.

She had tried to imagine how life would've been in Kirkwall as a respected family: living in lavishly furnished mansions, attending grand, opulent balls, dancing with men and women from Starkhaven and Tantervale, observing the intrigue and political maneuverings behind silk fans. (A life without encircling stone walls on, without the fear of demons and whispering fade spirits and the ever present threat of becoming tranquil.)

That was her first encounter with fatalism. Vague acceptance: she would never experience the freedom of an everyday citizen; she would always be a prisoner. As quickly as those thoughts came, they were banished, regarded as dangerous. Tears prickled at the edges of her eyes; she quickly wiped them away and leaned back in her chair, putting some distance between her and the book that sat innocently on the table. A lifetime of pondering what-ifs would not help her sanity. It would only remind her of what she doesn't have.

_But... _

Amell had craned her neck back and stared at the windows, built so high that only the midday sunlight could ever touch the floor. ("It's so people like you and me," Anders had helpfully explained as they practiced casting Winter's Breath on a straw dummy, "mostly me, wouldn't even dream about using them to escape. Don't know why they bother. You won't be able to hit Lake Calenhad even if you took a running jump. You'd just splatter all over the rocks.") She had warily eyed the bookshelves and wondered how long it has been since they were built (but if they've managed to hold all those books, the extra weight of one mage shouldn't upset their structural integrity) and she got the most brilliant idea, the most stupidest idea...

* * *

"You're not supposed to be here," a voice, masculine, too young to be a senior, too old to be a recruit, chastised, tone resonating in the chamber that she had up till then presumed empty. Leaning over her perch, she observed the templar silently, her thumb absentmindedly gliding over the etches in her family pendant. Pity he had his helmet on - without, she probably would have been able to place who he was among the many armored that patrolled the halls. He sounded familiar. "Its past curfew. What are you doing up there?"

Watching the sunrise and the streaks of reds, oranges, yellows, and blues that colored the sky and the Bannorn. The feathered clouds swirled around the horizon, seemingly stretched towards her like the beckoning hands of a Desire Demon. "I..." She faltered. When the Circle had grown silent save for Jowan's soft snores in the Apprentice Quarters, she had snuck out past their templar minder to the library and scaled the shelves. It was dangerous for someone like her to indulge in a moment of spontaneity but after the discovery of what could be her ancestral roots, she just wanted to see and pretend, for once. "I wanted to see what the people outside see."

"You need to come down." Why? All that awaited her was dull walls and duller floors - a stark contrast to the world outside and its vivacity. The Knight Commander Gregoir authorized supervised weekly exercise outside of the tower in the early afternoon but after Anders' third attempt to flee, weekly exercise had dwindled into every other week, sometimes as rare as once a month, depending on the behavior of the mages and the whims of the Chantry. (Anders never failed to be captured and returned, hair disheveled by the wind, skin burnt from the sun, filled with stories of a world they were not familiar with, basking in the envious eyes of his peers.) "Ame- Apprentice Amell. Please."

Grey eyes shifted from the windows back to the templar; she cocked her head to the side, "How do you know my name, Ser Templar?" It was a rule that templars must emotionally dissociate themselves from the apprentices - no fraternal affection, no friendships - not with the risk of a failed Harrowing or a training accident or the Rite of Tranquility. The requirement relaxed after an apprentice ascended into magehood - but prior to that, they do not even talk when prompted (though they will reluctantly accept small snacks when hungry).

Sighing, she descended the side of the shelves, past the books on primal magic, creation, entropy, until her feet was on solid ground. Casting one last look back at the window, she pressed the heel of her palm over her sternum, wincing at the dull ache that was beginning to form. She turned: her gaze refocused on the symbol of the Order that was blazoned proudly on the templar's front and on his right hand which had begun to twitched.

She tried again. "Have we met before?" No audible answer. He stepped towards her, presumably to take her hand to prevent her from leaving his side. Instead, his arms moved around her and she was suddenly swept away by the scent of citrus, armor polish and...

* * *

Cullen.

There were wolves howling beyond the deafening roar of the wind. Hovering between alert and unconscious, she was dimly aware of two things: she was cold and she was being carried. Feeling her shiver, Cullen's grip on her tightened, holding her even closer as his pace quickened. Instinctively, she buried her face into the crook of his neck. "Hold on," he whispered into her hair, hot breath ghosting over her temple, "I have you."

**Mother Giselle**

The moment that Seeker Cassandra returned, out of breath and disheveled, and ordered the nearest two scouts to prepare hot water, a bundle of elfroot potion, and a bed, speculations quickly spread from tent to tent. Workers scrambled to their feet as if waking from a spell; Sister Nightingale and Lady Ambassador pulled the warrior aside asking for further details. Not five minutes later, the Commander was spotted on the far side of the mountain slope carrying the Herald in his arms. "Can it be?" hesitant faces poked out of tents, rubbing sleep out of their eyes, "Has Andraste's chosen returned to us?" Albeit she was trembling, feverishly muttering non-stop under her breath as she was lowered into a cot - but she was back.

The battle of Haven had shaken every inhabitant's faith to the core. To see an army of men and women that bore the symbol that was once universally respected and feared descending down on their humble town. To see a dragon burn down what remained standing. To see their defender willingly sacrificing herself for the survival of the townspeople and the Inquisition and then - and then surviving the encounter...

Mother Giselle wiped a hot towel over the Herald's forehead, an island of calmness in the midst of a frantic crowd of healers that came and went. "The darkspawn," the Herald had mumbled deliriously when they had roused her to drink two cups of tonic, "His name is Corypheus." With that revelation, a story had unraveled with the help of the Tevinter mage and a first-hand account by the dwarven companion of the Champion of Kirkwall about a Magister, one of the original seven.

"_Those who had sought to claim Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was golden and pure turned black. Those who had once been mage-lords, the brightest of their age, were no longer men, but monsters."_

The more the people of Haven learned of this enemy, the more the Herald's triumphs in the face of adversity seemed ordained by the Maker himself. The knowledge that the one responsible for the Conclave explosion, who has finally revealed himself to be something more than an intangible threat, invited a sense of renewed determination within the Inquisition: if he is alive, then he can be killed. The organization will succeed - that is, if they are not torn apart from within. Sighing, she lifted the tent flaps and hooked them onto the crooked overhang.

The advisors had gathered around the only fire that was still tended in the dark of night. Embers sparked, leaping from the ashes and sputtering in the snow, casting sharp shadows on their features, giving them an unusually harsh and otherworldly air. Their voices grew louder as their frustration mounted from their inability to decide upon anything other than the helplessness of their plight.

The Herald gently stirred from her deep sleep; grey eyes that were once glazed and unfocused wearily opened, tracing the edges of the makeshift shelter, no longer with the ghostly pallor she had when she had arrived. As she propped herself upright on her elbows, Mother Giselle pressed a small cup of Madame de Fer's special concoction into her hands - amrita vein steeped in snow water, mixed with pepper and thickened with embrium salve and honey.

"Though you look better, child, I do not wish you to overexert yourself. You are still weak," Mother Giselle soothed as the Herald took hesitant sips. After stabilizing her condition, the healers, magical and non-magical, had proclaimed that there was nothing else they could do for a fever except prescribe undisturbed rest and copious amounts of hot liquids. After assigning Mother Giselle with the task of overseeing her recovery and to alert any of the them when she does wake, the healers proceeded to shoo all the well-wishers out of the awning.

Setting the cup aside on a bedside table, the Herald shifted in a more comfortable position and shivered as a passing wind hit her skin. Sister Nightingale had stripped her of her soaked clothes and armor and dressed her in a thin shift that would've barely covered her modesty if it had not been for the Commander's feathered pauldron that was tucked under her chin and the comforters piled upon her form that shielded her from the bleak environment. "Revered Mother," she softly greeted, "Has any news came about?"

"Not since you last awoke," Mother Giselle replied as she ladled some broth from the small cauldron into a bowl. The qunari mercenary had offered the recipe and sworn by it as a deterrent against frostbitten winters. At least everyone at camp had tried at least one mouthful and all agreed that despite its acquired taste, it did induce a pleasant burn that traveled down from their tongue to their stomachs and warmed brittle fingers. As the Herald poked dubiously at the shredded roots and chunks of meat with her spoon, Mother Giselle felt her forehead, careful to not disturb the bandages that extended from her left cheek down to her neck - still hot, but not worryingly so.

The Herald bore the ministrations with patience, "No sign of the Elder One?" she prodded as her towel was refreshed.

"None," and not from the lack of trying either - both Sister Nightingale and Commander Cullen had sent out their people to survey the area. The reconnaissance missions had not proven fruitful, which was as reassuring as it was not. Mother Giselle folded her hands in her lap, "Perhaps he is recovering his troop numbers and did not seek to follow us, believing that you are beyond the mortal coil."

"I nearly was," the Herald murmured between spoonfuls of broth. The pair fell into a comfortable silence that allowed the voices outside the shelter to drift their way. The advisor's heated argument, strength having not waned since it had begun, was less like professional council and more as an outlet to vent hot tempers. The sounds washed over their heads with the anticipatory potential of a wave from the Waking Sea. She yawned into the crook of her elbow, "They're very passionate. What are they disagreeing on?"

("We are sitting ducks. It'll only be a matter of time before the Elder One finds us and I don't think he is the type to leave loose ends."

"Where should we go? Redcliffe? Denerim? Val Royeaux? Do you honestly-")

"The future of the Inquisition," Mother Giselle answered, "Our most immediate concerns have been addressed. You have returned to our side. Our supplies are inventoried. Our sick are cared for to our best abilities. Our dead has been counted," her gaze slid past the Herald and onto the row of cots that extended into the next tent. Bodies, covered by a white sheet stained in red, laid motionless like ghosts - Chancellor Roderick was one among the many. "Deliberating is not so easy in our situation when we are offered many roads to take and none that look safe."

("-nobles are with us because of our power. Without that, they wipe their hands of us."

"We have families here! Children! I will not force them to march across Thedas on nothing but a supposition!")

Next to each bed laid a small bottle of deathroot poison: a painless option for those who were unwilling to wait for the morning. Fingering the edges of the feather pauldron, the Herald mused offhandedly, "Would it have been better if I was a martyr?" Outside, Lady Ambassador quickly placed herself between Sister Nightingale and Commander Cullen who almost seem to be coming to physical blows.

"Decisions would be made at a faster rate," Mother Giselle allowed, "but that would be because the Inquisition would start from a lower state. What you are suggesting is a much darker alternative." Progress would be fueled by grief, desperation, and vengeance - though it has been only a few scant months - the Herald, through action, words, and intent, had settled into the hearts of many in the organization. "Your presence has increased the general consensus that we are aided by a greater being. Belief has increased, even among those who had doubted. You are our embodiment of hope and faith. They are powerful emotions. They have started wars, they have ended wars; they have formed the countries we know today, they have felled many before ours."

Seeker Cassandra retreated back to her table of maps and markers, sullen and exhausted, leaving the three advisors to brood by the fire, each in their own little world of solitude. The Herald's lips quirked in a pretense of a smile as she scanned the field, at the father who was showing his two daughters how to read the constellations, at the elder woman praying at a hastily built altar to the Maker, at the few who still braved the winds and ventured outside, "Do you really think I am the Herald of Andraste?"

Mother Giselle closed her eyes in thought: her faith as a Chantry sister and her practicality that she had gained on the field during the mage-templar war, treating whomever needed to be treated, seeing first hand how the history between the two groups have festered hate and fear, made an odd combination. She stood out among her peers as an unusual, brave, but still respected figure. "I believe that what you have accomplished is not without divine intervention. The way the world had shaped itself is not anything that could be called a coincidence."

Grey eyes narrowed - her assessing gaze felt like a call of judgment, as if the decision she would come to make was going to establish an intangible force to push the Inquisition to take one of two paths: belief or non-belief. For a moment, Mother Giselle wondered if she should have said more. The Herald sighed, tension escaping from her shoulders as her knuckles press into her eyes, "The Maker sees fit to guide me through his many trials and tribulations. This is the second time I've emerged from whatever challenge he has given me, half-dead, half-alive. I am not tired, yet." Her finger glided down the edges of her bandages, tracing the lines of her facial markings, "If it gives them faith, I would not correct you."

Mother Giselle lowered her head in gratitude, "You are generous to your people, Herald. Do not ignore the support you have around you. As much as you are willing to help them, they are willing to assist you." The Herald hummed in response as she sunk back into her arrangement of blankets, Madame de Fer's tea beginning to flood her with renewed lethargy. Mother Giselle stepped out from under the tarp, intent on searching for one of the few healers that was still awake at this odd hour.

_Blessed are those unshaken by the darkness of the world._

Commander Cullen was immediately alerted at her presence. She didn't notice how his eyes locked onto her as the sounds of her footsteps walking through the snow grew more audible, but she did notice how he quickly reached her side in three quick strides and glanced up when he cleared his throat, "Revered Mother," bringing an arm up to his chest and bowing, taking great pains to give her proper deference although his attention kept being drawn towards the Herald's dark silhouette, "May I ask: how is she?"

Mother Giselle smiled, the first true one she offered since the fall of Haven, "Resting. She'll be happy to see you." The Commander returned the smile, albeit shakier and unsure. Mother Giselle watched as he accepted the unspoken permission, turned away from the fire, how his look of apprehension gave way to relief as he disappeared under the shelter, how he quickly intertwined his fingers with hers, even as she was rapidly falling back asleep.

(Perhaps she should wait before alerting the healers - there was no rush.) Above her was a clear sky, a canvas of stars, immutable through the many ages that has passed the world. Below them was the constant flux of people and movement among the landscape - seeking, yearning, surviving. In the middle of the Frostback Mountains, at an altitude so high that some found it problematic to breath, the Inquisition quietly licked its wounds. She saw twisted hearts and directionless eyes. Mother Giselle closed her eyes and stepped towards the camp fire.

And then, she began to sing

**Solas**

"No one alive knows how to create and manipulate magical foci," her fingers danced along the edges of the veilfire torch as she frowned in thought, "Well, not anymore, an ancient darkspawn Magister would. Shame that he returned with delusions of godhood instead of with love of lost knowledge." The last sentence more for her own ears than his. A small surge of mana later and she held a blue-green ball of fire in her palm that bore a startling resemblance to the Orb of Destruction.

Her memory was impressive - she even mimicked the groove patterns that circled and looped over the surface of the sphere. But it was not tangible; it was not his. "It does not belong to the Magisterium," kneading the bridge of his nose, Solas shook his head, crushing the urge to growl at the perversion that time had wrought on his people's history. She casually flicked her wrist, the imitation dissipating soundlessly into the chilled air, "Focii are an elven invention - another skill stolen by Tevinters when they invaded and pillaged the ancient lands. They are rare and prized artifacts that were said to hold the power and skills of the elven gods. How he managed to procure one - I do not know."

Amell hummed as she turned her bandaged left hand over, hints of Fade magic peeking between the gauze, "I felt its power," she murmured, barely heard over the din of activity of the campgrounds that held renewed life and motivation after the Chantry Sister's song. Sounds of clinking metal and soft laughter drifted past the rock cliff and the cluster of everite deposits to their area, as if there was a new Haven. "When Corypheus got close enough, the foci sought and connected with the Anchor."

A raven flew overhead - Sister Nightingale was growing anxious at their prolonged disappearance. Clasping his arms behind his back, Solas nodded, "Like attracts like." He allowed, falling into the familiar tones of a scholar, "They were once used so frequently in Elvhenan that the veil separating this world from the Fade became thin enough that even non-mages could interact with the doorways." The entire region had been tinted in green - a thick miasma of heady power drifted from the opened portals, diffusing and mixing with the air of the sea and skies.

The light of the veilfire illuminated her grey eyes, which locked onto his as she tilted her head in thought, "I believe you when you say the orb is elven," she decided, shivering as a crosswind wrapped its cold arms around them and threatened to blow out the torch. "It sings like one: sounds like you," and she smiled, as if they were sharing a private joke - like she knew the secrets he had not verbalized. He wondered if she could somehow feel the imprint on his magic despite the thousands of years of neglect and eventual lost connection to the Fade. Somewhere deep in his core, were there still the remnants of fundamental aspects of which defined Fen'Harel?

Redcliffe had changed the dynamics between her and him from curious professionalism to curiouser camaraderie. Their initial meeting was one based upon the understanding that the similarities between them ended at their mutual magical background and love for knowledge, but he had cultivated lasting friendships on shakier ground. Most topics that they had shared in idle conversation, between the departures and returns of Sister Nightingale's forward scouts and in the lulls at Haven in the small clearing between their cottages, had been about magical theory.

("Twisting the veil into a mobius strip blocks the problematic side effects of transitioning from intent to outcome. Positive feedback loop - ergo, stronger, longer lasting spells."

"Yes, but you would sacrifice precision and time due to ambient magic generated on the field. Blending your aura into -")

Solas puzzled over what he could have possibly said in the alternative bleak future. Did he confess his hand in the explosion of the Conclave and the formation of the Breach? Did he hint at his true nature? Or was it something more subtle - did he tell her that as he slept, he dreamed of the Battle of Ostagar and saw two grey wardens, unseasoned fighters barely pass their recruitment stage, fighting desperately to the top of the tower beacon? Did he tell her how he marveled at the disparate amount of bravery that shone within her compared to her young age? Did he ask her why Mythal had chosen to save her?

He never hid his distaste for the grey wardens and whenever the topic of the organization was broached, he grew either non-committal or critical about their influence that they thoughtlessly flung about compared to the startling lack of knowledge of the very entities that they were fighting. But unlike Blackwall who, having held the wardens in high regard, quickly grew defensive and a bit off-guard, the commander herself found his opinions more intriguing than suspicious. Her relentless questioning had reminded him of the inquisitiveness of a da'len mixed with the predatory air of a varghest.

* * *

"Is it the killing of the Archdemon that makes you mad? I knew of a cult that worshiped a high dragon," she mused, perched on the roof of her cabin as she patiently awaited for her faithful mabari to return. She shifted from foot to foot; loose snow fell from the rooftop in small clumps, "Even the people who are not in cults respect their power: Bull, for example." Amell pointed to the distant figure who was sparring with the Seeker on the training grounds, moving at a speed that should not be possible considering his bulk, "for him, its a sexual pleasure."

Solas faltered, unsure whether to be affronted or exasperated, "I am not the Iron Bull. Regardless, my reasons behind my thoughts are personal matters." A raven cried in the east watchtower. Seeker Cassandra rushed forward and feinted to the left, swinging her shield parallel to the ground, knocking the massive qunari off-balance. Solas cleared his throat, unsure of how much to give and how much to hide, "I would really rather not go in depth-"

"Five Blights have already passed," Amell further pressed as she leaned over the eaves, "There are two old gods remaining." The afternoon sun above bestowed a shadow that sharpened her features. A Redcliffe mage hurried by, rushing out of the apothecary and down the stairs toward the tavern with a bundle of lyrium potions in her arms. "Would you rather the grey wardens concentrate only on the darkspawn?"

Her interrogation was cut short by a series of barks - her mabari returned with his stick in tow. Bounding up the stairs and over the bushes, he deposited the gift under her swinging feet and spun in small, happy circles. Solas's tense posture did not immediately slack when her attention was momentarily diverted to her beloved companion - but he did breath easier for the next few minutes that she had spent praising and cooing the animal in turn. At his seat where the fence met the walls of his cabin, he noted with some bemusement that the dog still carefully gave him a wide berth.

"Strange," she had commented when he was first introduced to the mabari who had taken one look at him, retreated slowly, and growled, ears peeled back, teeth bared. "Dog is usually friendly around elves. Maybe you remind him of Keeper Zathrian." Immediately looking contrite, she had refused to elaborate, as if drawing the comparison had caused her to unintentionally insult him.

Though Mabari war hounds had been bred by mage and magic for their intelligence and fighting ability, he wondered if they had accidentally, along the way, developed some preternatural sixth sense. The pungent scent of Kaddis of the Trickster, finger-painted on his body in a mimicry of the facial tattoos of his master, should block most of his ability to smell the minute differences between Solas the elf and Fen'Harel the wolf. But it was said that the greatest dog warriors had the ability to shake off magic spells like water rolling down their backs - increased willpower and increased magical resistance could engender an awareness towards...

("Take the Dread Wolf by the ear if he comes," the Dalish clans whispered to their dogs.)

The barking of the war hound as he sprinted out of their line of sight, again chasing the stick that she had flung in the direction of the smithy had Solas shaking out of his reverie. "You do not even fully understand what you are fighting. Is it darkspawn? Is it the Blight? Is it the corruption inherent in the world of which the darkspawn is only one small part?" His fingers drummed a fast tempo against the fence post, "Are you battling against the world?"

She stared into the distance, gaze focused on the Breach suspended high in the mountain tops. "If people die, I'm obligated to stop them from dying."

Nothing could be that straightforward - but there was logic in simplicity. He didn't try to refute her.

* * *

They were blessed with continuous days and nights of clear skies as they trekked their way through the mountain pass. The path beneath them used to be paved with polished obsidian and emeralds, indicating the direction of where elves once hiked to worship their gods and goddesses. Rows of brontos breathed heavily as they pulled wagons as large as aravels, flanked on each side by weathered and tired families. The Inner Circle had scattered along the edges of the group, alert for any signs of hostility, as he and the Herald took point.

"The songs are getting louder," she observed, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear. "We are getting close to whatever you're trying to find," she frowned, tilting her head toward the sun and breathing deeply in. "Does this the path connected the empire with the kingdom? Was this a trade route?"

His feet remembered the texture of the dirt biting into his soles. The mountains were familiar to him in shape and intensity of presence - as was the call that drove him forward, the siren song that beckoned the company towards the highest peaks where a single river traversed the Frostbacks. He was sure that she could also feel the constant pull from the north. "A pilgrimage trail," he replied, "to a site designed for ritual magic." It had leaked into the foundations before the early Fereldens transformed the area into a keep, bleeding dry any nearby quarries in a wide radius from here to the Hinterlands.

The pair of them were the first to round the slope and see the towers peak above the clouds, a keep bordered by sharp peaks, standing directly over the wide river. Magnificence in physicality; aged in neglect. Even from the distance, one could make out the signs of disrepair and structural collapse. While Solas leaned back against the rock face, she pushed ahead until she stood with her shoes toeing the edge of the precipice. "The place is grand, Solas." She exclaimed as she slowly registered the scenery standing before her, a smile dancing on her lips, "You dreamed of this?" The glance back she offered was a fine mixture of awe, glee, and curiosity.

He faintly registered the sounds of the others slowly marching toward their area. Closing his eyes, he allowed his senses to stretch outward, reaching for the source of the ambient magic that awaited its future inhabitants. "It had made its impression upon many souls. The memories that contain it are passionate and powerful. The Fade picks up the strong feelings, even from those that have been dead for centuries. I believe it will suite your needs, Herald."

She didn't seem to have heard him - head tilted to the side as if... "Do you hear that?" she pressed her index finger against her lips, "There's a wolf out there." The strangely intuitive comment brought a strange chill down his back: the fourth one she had made in his presence thus far. He wondered if there was more to her story of giving an elven phylactery final rights deep in the Lower Brecilian Ruins and being gifted the knowledge of the Dirth'ena Enasalin. Did she also gain knowledge of the mythos surrounding elven tradition? Possibly more? (It might explain why she sometimes moved like one - soft sure steps, nearly silence even on a forest ground covered in autumn leaves or fresh fallen snow. It might explain her sensitivity towards ancient elven magics.)

Seeker Cassandra was the first to reach their sphere of silence. Her sharp intake of breath was barely noticeable against the strong head winds that they faced and the roaring cold waters below. Slowly, the rest of the party climbed the slope behind them and trickled around them, filling the space between boulders and still bodies. A hush fell over the crowd as they beheld the fortress, the main gate, and the single bridge that offered the only way in and out of the stronghold, too stunned to even whisper praises to their god. Rounded towers of Ferelden architecture jutted out behind high stone walls, all sitting on sacred elven ground, his sacred ground where he had dwelled and roamed, rested and plotted - saturated in memories both happy and bitter.

It was the Herald who first shattered the silence, "Did the Fade whisper to you its name?"

He fought to suppress a pleased smile, "It has collected many names since it was built, many that originated from languages long forgotten. Tarasyl'an Te'las was its most common designation. You may call it Skyhold."


	8. Chapter 8

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**ATTENTION: STORY WILL BE MOVED TO ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN UNDER PSEUDONYM "DIOMEDEIDAE."** IF YOU HAVE ANY OBJECTIONS - PLEASE STATE THEM NOW. I WILL POST ONE LAST CHAPTER WITH THE SAME ANNOUNCEMENT BEFORE OFFICIALLY STOPPING.

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

**Cassandra**

The moment the Herald crossed the high arch of the castle gate, the first foot of many to step into the courtyard, Cassandra felt the errant puzzle pieces that made up the heart of the Inquisition firmly slot into place. Haven, as its namesake itself invoked a sense of the transience, was never meant to be a permanent stay: it was not a stronghold, it did not offer ample protection against outside threats. But here, "Skyhold," Solas had called the keep and turned away when he could not hide the strong affection from his eyes, as though it was he who had given the earth beneath their feet its magical thrum, who had manually laid down the stones and applied the mortar between the uneven gaps where the edges meet.

Here, potential was present like the moss stubbornly clinging to the north side of the fallen boulders, the vines that threatened to swallow the high windows, and the overgrowth that forced the Inquisition soldiers to hack at the their branches as the party pushed farther in. To think that there was an oasis that waited for them in the stark white, grey, and brown color palette of the surrounding mountains. To think that it was theirs.

It took a few days for the initial frenzied movements of moving and unpacking and settling to slow enough for people to think. In that time, the Inner Circle made themselves scarce as they busied themselves with assisting the help using whatever skills and tools they had at their disposal. Workers began to clear the debris and rubble that blocked the passage through the double doors that led into the throne room. The tavern was the first to be refurbished. Supplies were stacked in the peripheries, waiting to be transported as soon as the interiors of the fortress became accessible: spindly legged escritoires, oak bookcases, bundles of herbs, rolls of fabrics, standard issued swords... The list of what they did have rivaled the length of the list of what they did not have. Pilgrims arrived daily from every settlement in the region - low Ferelden timbre mixed with Orlesian musical cadences as they talked of their backgrounds, their futures, the Elder One, and the Herald.

Curious and reverent eyes lingered on a woman of hair so black it held a faint blue hue in the sunlight, pulled back by intricately twining ribbons and strings, who flickered in and out of view like a mirage as she answered the countless needs of her people. Occasionally, one could spy her by the outer bulwark, brushing her fingers along the uneven surface of stone and cast stone, as if she was feeling more than just the morning dewdrops.

It took a few days for the advisors to come to a decision. In the end, there was no contesting the Herald's role in the Inquisition. There was no other person who could challenge her leadership to even the the slightest degree of her commandeered deference and awe. No one had even entertained the thought.

The air was crisp in the early morning and many inhabitants loitered in the open grounds, chatting with one another in easy conversation as they awaited for their breakfasts to finish cooking over the open fire. Cassandra stood under a branch of rich maroon leaves when Amell emerged from Master Harrit's temporary stead. The Seeker kept her feet at shoulders width, hands behind her back, face devoid of any expression - it was a stance that all who belonged to any military organization are familiar with and conveyed the messages : information to report; walk with me.

It took a few days for wearied looks of refugees to clear and for aching feet to rest. Attentions turned outward as people began to wonder how the Inquisition was going to defeat Corypheus and whether or not there was even enough power to outmaneuver his own military might. The Inquisition still had most of its power that it had gained during its stay in Haven but they were scattered among the many metaphorical wounds that still had to be patched - soldiers ranks to be replenished, healers to be recruited, merchants to be invited to these walls, agents to be sent ever farther from their base of operations.

"Give it time," Amell ducked under the yellow foliage of a young beech tree that stood at the foot of the stairs, plucking a leaf and admiring its hue, "power centralizes on its own. You don't need to worry about that." She absentmindedly twirled the petiole, "What you need to do is find a way to break the war council's three-way tie." The three branches of the Inquisition, military, political, and espionage, at their foundations, mixed together in a characteristic manner of oil and water. "Luckily for you, there are many ways to do so."

In Cassandra's opinion, there was only one way. "The Inquisition needs a leader."

It took one heartbeat of silence for her to follow the non-verbal line of reasoning and reach the same conclusion that the advisors had. "Oh? And you think that I..." and her voice trailed off as the sentence remained unfinished. The leaf slipped through her loose fingers, fluttering down to the earth.

One who has already taken the mantle in an unofficial manner. One whose actions has allowed us to close the Breach and escape the wrath of the Elder One. "Were you not expecting this?" Cassandra asked. It was obvious to any other that she was the best choice - the only choice that held unanimous support. "Before the explosion of the Conclave, you were our first choice. The late Divine Justinia had searched for you. We held you in high regard, even before all of the accomplishments you have had while with us."

"I try not to think about it, but that's not an excuse." Amell laughed under her breath, ran a hand through her hair, "I had believed, hoped, I guess, that things wouldn't change. Or at least, if they did, that..." she sighed, "It's obvious in hindsight." They reached the platform where Leliana waited patiently some paces away with a broadsword in hand. Amell glanced between the two, Seeker and Spymaster, brow furrowing, "Considering how much power I already have, this," she gestured towards the sword after a long minute of silence, "should worry you."

"Handing anyone that much power is troubling," Cassandra admitted as Amell brushed her fingers down the unsharpened edge and then back towards the decorative hilt over the scales of the entwined dragon, down the curve of its horns and over the red ruby eye, "But we know you and we trust you. There would've been no Inquisition without you. I have faith that it was meant to be you who lead us to where we are meant to go."

A crowd had long gathered at the base of the platform during their discussion, drawn by the solemnity of ceremony and the sharp edge in the air of history being written. Cullen and Josephine stood at the front and side; the Inner Circle lined the back. Amell's eyes flickered over the silent congregation, "This is your design," she said to Leliana with equal parts accusation and exasperation.

The Spymaster inclined her head and offered a closed-lip smile, "We've all agreed first. But yes, I planned out how. You would've said no if I had asked first - and sometimes, it is easier to apologize later than to get permission. Look. Your people are waiting for you." The crowd bristled in anticipation. Amell stared at the sword as if a mere touch would awaken the dragon hilt and summon the being from its metal form. Still, her fingers slowly curled around the grip. "Do you accept?"

"You know me so well, Leliana," she murmured as she grasped the handle and lifted. With a flick of her wrist, she swung the broadsword in a graceful arc with the ease of a warrior, and stopped at the on-guard position, tip pointing towards the sun.

Below her, the crowd began to cheer.

**Leliana**

The throne room smelled of decaying wood and stale air, untouched for centuries. Small dust clouds swirled at their ankles with each step that they took, causing Josephine to sneeze delicately into her handkerchief. The three patterned stain glass windows on the far end of the hall offered three seemly solid pillars of light that shined onto the dais. Brief visions flashed across her eyes: instead of ruined upholstery, she saw rows of mahogany tables and cushioned chairs, instead of the fine coating of dust and grime covering the wooden floors, she saw carpets imported from Orlais and across the Waking Sea, instead of rubble and dubious structural integrity she saw the endless criss cross scaffolding reaching to the high ceilings.

She would see to it personally that the keep will return to its old majesty. A light frisson ran down her spine, similar to the sensation that passed during the ceremony just hours prior. The memory lingered in the the heavy air, the people's sentiments had echoed their Commander's cry, their fervor rose with their faith until she was nearly dizzy with the passion.

"_Will you follow? Will you fight? Will we triumph? Your leader, your Herald, your Inquisitor!"_

Yet, her heart still felt the ghostly stabs of guilt : the title bestowed upon her old friend was another burden, another weight. Since she had gained the title of Herald, Amell looked constantly tired - more so than any of her peers - both the Calling, the dreadful beckoning that dragged wardens to their deaths in the Deep Roads, and her duties, that ever strong conscience that established liability over every life in the Inquisition, had her keeping odd hours - late at night, early in the morning.

Her nightmares were not a secret among the advisors and not a secret among the Inner Circle after they started pulling shifts, watching over her frail form back at the summit camp in the mountains. But the average person still had yet to find out about the night terrors: the anguished cries and the restless hands that clenched tightly at the edges of her cot. Exhaustion was her standard state of being.

Thankfully, Amell's goals as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden had coincided with her goals as the Inquisitor. She balanced both positions, shifting the fulcrum on a inlaid gold set scale, applying her attentions at each side - making sure that it would never heavily favor one side. But should she ever have to choose...

Since the ceremony, the all-encompassing question Leliana silently asked leaned away from 'Could the Elder One be defeated?' and into 'What will happen once Corypheus is dead?' as the Inquisition rode on a wave of belief that failure was impossible, stirring souls into transcending their physical limitations. Mother Giselle had told Amell that the first Inquisition had dissolved after the Nevarran Accord, after purging the world of the blood mages, the heretical cults, the abominations, and spreading the Chant of Light as far as they could reach, heavily implying that this was also to be the fate of this incarnation. That assurance was one of the main reasons why Amell, however reluctantly, took the sword and made her vows upon it to serve and protect. Though she did not verbalize it, she was wary of power, despite how much she held in her hands.

The Ferelden Grey Wardens were her family, one that she had painstakingly created recruit by recruit, until, a decade later gained a reputation beyond the country as one that though still relatively low in manpower compared to its sister organizations, boasted individuals of coveted skills and abilities. The group that had traversed all of Ferelden to conquer the Fifth Blight had been her family: long nights around the campfire, trading stories, ribald jokes, and gifts. But when the Archdemon died, its headless body lying under the mage warden's feet, after promising to write, the group scattered to the four winds - each following their own path away from Denerim. Sten returned to Seheron and rapidly ascended the ranks until he could not any longer and Zevran to Antiva, quickly becoming a headache for his old organization. Wynne and Shale followed the cry of the Libertarian mages, seeking out forgotten secrets between the Chantry and the Circles as the White Spire fell. Leliana transformed herself into a tool to be used at the command of her old friend, walking the shadows as terrified whispers followed her steps and made her smile, "Left Hand of the Divine: Sister Nightingale."

Within the war torn country of Ferelden, the only companions that could truly say that they stayed by her side were Oghren, who joined the order, and Dog, of which it was his nature to stay at her side. Alistair, the King of Ferelden, visited the rebuilt arling often enough that he was eventually included in the short list.

If Corypheus died tomorrow, Amell would not hesitate to return east to the waiting arms of her fellow brothers and sisters. But there was time enough for Sister Nightingale to plan, swearing that with her second chance, she will not let her dear friend go that easily. Still, she swore, when she had left the Orlesian courts, that she would not manipulate her friends, but that didn't mean that she can shift the parameters of the possibilities... Sister Nightingale retreated to the corners of her mind; Leliana bit down on her lip hard enough to draw blood as she disposed of those dangerous ideas. She neither wished for Amell to leave, neither did she wish to steal her from the Grey Wardens. The future is not set in stone: only the Maker decides where it goes. (The old jealous voice within her that still remembered of her past infatuation with the mage warden, long dead from neglect, was still smarting from the fact that Alistair had monopolized her attention for ten years and did so without ever successfully giving her the Lothering rose.)

What would it take to have her considering to stay? Though Amell had already begun the process of making friends with her easy charm and cheerful personality, the Inquisition was at its roots a military organization with a far more professional bearing than Amaranthine. It would not be enough, but what would? Leliana's gaze slid towards the Commander who was engaged in a discussion about the logistics of sending troops to secure outposts in the Exalted Plains... (His entire countenance brightens whenever his eyes alighted upon her, he is drawn to her as a moth to flame.)

The addition to their gathering of one Varric Tethras, whose arrival was accompanied by the sounds of creaking hinges and the brush of wind outside stirring the debris littering the ground shifted the conversation from the impending peace talks at Halamshiral and the possible assassination of Empress Celene to the situation regarding the Grey Wardens and the possible demon army. When the dwarf hinted the arrival of a visitor, an outside source, that will be making a temporary home in the Skyhold barracks if the Inquisition would allow him, his entire audience all exchanged a knowing look. A myriad of emotions flitted across her face: apprehension, determination, joy. Though the arrival of the Champion of Kirkwall meant that Amell was finally going to meet with her famous (infamous) cousin, it also meant that the situation with Senior Warden Stroud was growing more precarious.

"At least they cannot do worse." Josephine remarked as she made a few notations on her clipboard, "for what is more horrific than facing a summoned demon army?"

Varric snorted in amusement, "Famous last words, Ruffles. Famous last words." He warned, rapping a knuckle against Bianca's grip. "Anyways," he addressed Amell,"come to the battlements later, when you finish your afternoon rounds. We'll be ready for you by then." As he left the group, walking backwards toward the double doors, he bowed low at the waist, "I'll prepare everything else. By your leave, your Inquisitorialness." The sounds of his footsteps fading from the chamber mixed with the din of activity beyond the doorway.

"Cassandra's not going to be happy," Leliana said mildly, brushing away the dust on her shoulders, when the dwarf's silhouette vanished beyond their line of sight. Her observation was met with a collective wince - the Seeker's fury was not one to be trifled with. The next few days would not be easy for Varric's general well-being.

Josephine sneezed again, "Well then. Now that we stand to move on both these concerns, I will take my leave." She swiped an index finger over the surface of the wall trimmings, grimacing as the thin layer of dust and dirt stuck to her fingertips, "I will hire some contractors later to begin restoration and send our invitation acceptance to Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. See me later, Inquisitor, so we can make a tentative schedule for your lessons in Orlesian etiquette and politics."

"The soldiers are ready when you are, Inquisitor. Just say the word. Warden-Commander Clarel will not know what she is contending with." Cullen assured as the council began walking towards the threshold.

The western wind blew in the scent of fallen leaves and smith fires, a welcome change from the stagnancy indoors. Below in the courtyard, Enchanter Ellandra and Belle, two of Josephine's agents, waited with an armful of scrolls bearing noble house insignias. With a minute rustle of silk and a shallow curtsy, she, too, departed. Closing her eyes, Amell took a few moments to softly inhale the fresh air. She was about to descend the stairs and join the late morning rush when Cullen reached out, hand suddenly cupping the curve of her shoulder.

"Wait, Amell," He started, glancing briefly at Leliana. Leliana raised an eyebrow as Cullen turned slowly red, his other hand coming up to rub the nape of his neck, "if you are not busy right now. Can we discuss a matter," he paused and swallowed tightly, "privately?"

Amused, Leliana decided to deign the commander's unspoken yet pointed request and melted into the shadows. So began another dance between the Herald and the Commander - what would it be this time? One inspired by the playful tune of a fiddle in the taverns? A smooth waltz with them gliding from one corner of the ballroom to the other? Or would it be the soft swaying of hips moving to no audible music or rhythm in an empty room, his arm around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder? Leliana stayed long enough to watch Amell startle out from of her reverie before slipping away to find her scouts.

Amell turned towards the man and blinked in confusion. "I would - what? We..." Though initially lost for words, she quickly picked up on his hints. Then, immediately, she matched the Commander in intensity of blush and averted her eyes. She slowly reached up and gently loosened his grip, but she did not let his hand go, and instead intertwined their fingers together. She sighed, lifting her gaze to meet his. "You're right." She murmured with an unreadable tone and a half smile full of unreadable emotion, "We need to talk."

**Amell**

By the time she entered her Harrowing, she had cultivated a network of favors among acquaintances and boasted of two friendships. While her relationship with Jowan thrived on a mutual hatred for creation and spiritual healing magics, her relationship will Cullen was late nights over a chessboard, exchanging stories of day to day activities, discussing everything from the metaphysical: dreams and aspirations, to the concrete: the various people that walked these halls and the beauty of sunrises in the mornings.

So there was this templar, who was not like the other templars. He didn't laugh when you had declared your intentions to become a future battlemage, despite your horrific test scores due to your tendency of using your staff as a spear and not as an actual mage staff, and instead offered you some basic sword forms that he learned in his early years as a recruit. He didn't laugh when you offered him your family pendant, holding every what could have been scenario had you not been a mage in its white-gold design, the night before you were forced to leave the Ferelden Circle, Jowan's blood dotting the hems of your robes. You hadn't known how to properly say farewell to the only person who still stood at your side and gifting him with the Amell crest seemed oddly fitting - it was a charm of good luck and, well, there will be at least one who would cherish the memories of you in the tower.

You become a warden.

So there was this templar, who, after you had saved your old home from blood mages and demons, cursed you and professed his love for you in one breath. Whatever potential life you could've had with him disappeared along with his affections and good will. Instead of feeling angry at the person responsible for the sudden emptiness, you buried the negativity under your burdens and when you dropped off Dagna to First Enchanter Irving and saw him standing in the corner, still refusing to even look in your direction, you silently swore that this was the last time you would set foot into this place. (You later broke your word when you were searching for Morrigan and her son but by then, he was already gone.)

With the Archdemon dead, with the Darkspawn Civil War resolved and both leaders dead, ten years passed in a strange blur of traveling wherever her feet took her in and around Ferelden, visiting old friends such as the rhyming Grand Oak in the Brecilian Forest and Corra who still worked at Tapster's Tavern, along the way picking up potential warden recruits like burrs on ring velvet. Ten years of... not exactly happiness and bliss, but pleasant contentment of her role in life.

Then the Calling struck - a thick wave of black and glowing red whose slow fingers slowly pierced through the realm of dreams. The older wardens were the first ones who heard the voices of the Old Gods in their sleep but it wasn't until the newly conscripted were found walking westward bound in a hypnotic state that Amell began to hazard a guess of foul play and forced a march of her remaining loyal, those who hadn't departed to the Deep Roads or deflected across borders to Warden-Commander Clarel, to Soldier's Peak where Avernus waited for them. Then, after being assured of their safety and placing her second-in-command, Warden Constable Howe, in charge, bringing along Dog, Amell chased after the little trail of bread crumbs left by Senior Warden Janeka to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She joined the Inquisition and suddenly, everything changed.

So you met the templar again in the Chantry of Haven after ten years of trying to forget him. He doesn't hate you. But how could that be? _"Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demons."_ The rumors that had reached you through the Pilgrims' Path of him had not been positive. Had he gone mad and slayed innocent apprentices? Why did he transfer to the one city in all of Thedas that was famous for violent mage subjugation practices? In any reunion between you two, you expected scorn, derision, hatred, maybe even a blade poised at your neck, ready to cut you down. But no, what you got was kind eyes and lingering touches that you had initially thought was a one-sided hyper-awareness but it turned out to be...

"I love you," he told her, underneath the red boughs that hung over the broken panels of the ceiling, translucent in the sunlight. They stood in one of the towers of the main gate, overlooking the western passage to Orlais, surrounded by four walls of stone. A trembling hand rested on her cheek, the other resting on her hip.

She didn't squirm away but neither did she mimic his gesture - her arms hung loosely at her side as she stared at his painfully open expression. His words lit up a slow rising heat in her stomach that twisted and ached, "How? You..." She faltered as she tried to find words to use to convey an emotion that walked the line between confusion and want. "After the Ferelden Circle broke, after Uldred took you, you yourself said that a desire demon," She swallowed, involuntarily leaning into his touch as his thumb brushed over her tattoo markings, "had my face. I never faulted you for wanting distance away from everything." From the Circle Tower, from her - she didn't blame anyone except those who were responsible for the bloodshed, but that didn't mean that she didn't occasionally stare up at the skies and asked why everyone in her past that she had ever loved left her.

He didn't flinch when she brought up their past; she was unsure as to how to interpret the lack of reaction. "The demon was not you." She flinched; the hand on her hip tightened, "It took me ten years to realize the truth - her deception was skin deep, nothing more." Not her eyes, not her laugh, not her words, not her heart, "Forgive me," the corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a rueful smile, "I did not mean to keep you waiting."

"I wasn't," she replied, a bit too quickly, a bit defensive, "Maybe a little," she conceded when he gave her a leveled stare, shifting her weight from foot to foot as heat crept up her neck and onto her face, "But I didn't hope for much. People change in ten, eleven years. The world changed since then. How can you be sure that you still love in the same manner?" A large part of her cannot believe that she still held his heart since the Ferelden Circle fell; an even larger part of her cannot believe that she unknowingly had his heart years before since her apprentice days.

His arms shifted around, pulling her closer to him. She did not object to the embrace, instead reveling at the heat emanating from his arms, tucking her head into the crook of his neck: citrus, armor polish, Cullen. "The qualities that make you Amell and not anyone else hasn't changed," he murmured as her hands clenched, each gathering a fistful of his mahogany shirt. "You are still you... Sorry. I am not being very eloquent here," he smiled sheepishly, "I hope you understand?" She hummed in assent, hiding a barely there smile into his skin as an inexplicable fondness welled up within her. Likewise, the intrinsic qualities that made up Cullen had not changed like his titles: Ser, Knight Captain, or Commander.

She lightly shivered as the mountain winds blew in through the windows. He pulled her closer until she was flush against his body, his rhythmic breaths against the sensitive skin of her ear lulling her into a state of complacency bordering on sleep. "I care for you," she said, reluctantly leaning back to properly address him. Everything about him burns - his eyes sears, his touch brands. "but it has been ten years and love is not... I'm not there yet. But, I think I will be," and that was the most she could promise him.

If she was feeling poetic, she would say that her love is like a tree. The roots had to first extend down into the dirt before the branches could radiate outward in the sky, before the leaves could flourish and the flowers could bloom. It needed _time _to grow. "I will wait," he nudged her closer to the point that if she wanted more, she only had to turn her head and lean forward to close that last gap of intimacy between them.

"You shouldn't have to. It's not fair to you." The farewell kiss that she had given him in the Chantry at Haven was a regret of what could have been. She had honestly thought that the battle would be the last of her. But she was alive - she had a second chance. His heart was in her hands; she could feel the devotion pouring from it in waves. It thrilled and terrified her in turns. Though time's tribulations have not changed their base natures, she could see how the intangible cracks and scars trailed through his soul - the lines from the raking claws of demons was one of the many that she could identify. They are both fragile beings.

"It's not too much trouble," he insisted, "I can afford to wait a bit longer." He let his forehead rest on hers, "What happened at Haven would not happen again. I will not allow it. I'll make this work." He pressed his lips to the thin, sensitive skin of her wrist, branding the promise into her veins; she shivered. "If you need time, I will make time."

They stayed in that position for a few minutes, neither feeling the need to be the first to extricate themselves from the other's hold. Yet, the duties of the Inquisition called for them both and when someone knocked on the door that lead to the walkway of the main atrium, Cullen sighed and called the visitor in. Amell reluctantly stepped back but kept their fingers linked together, watching as the slow procession of men and women carrying in tools and supplies and furniture, as the dilapidated room slowly turned into an office fitting for the Commander of the Inquisition.

"Chess later tonight?" He asked her after the last of the workers dropped their heavy loads along the far walls and departed with a low bow, as she opened the doors leading to the battlements.

"Of course. When have I ever said no?" she leaned up and kissed his cheek, "As long as you prepare the board, Commander."


	9. Chapter 9

Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

**STORY WILL BE MOVED TO ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN UNDER TITLE 'PAST THE SHADES WHERE BLIND MEN GROPE' - CHECK THERE FOR FUTURE UPDATES. THERE WILL BE NO FUTURE UPDATES ON FANFICTION.**

**Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope**

Cole

There is a delirious man lying on thin bedding, shrouded from the hurts of broken ribs and pierced organs by a thick haze of witherstalk. He feels no pain. His armor, regulation forest-green hunter outfit, has been stripped off, exposing a bandaged torso and pooling red to the winter wind. He is not cold. The surgeon, harried and exhausted from continuous days of failed treatments, has moved him outside the medical tents to die. He stares blankly at the cloudless sky.

Cole watches the pen in his hand craft a letter on vellum, dictated in flashes of potent love and fatigued acceptance. My darling. Though my only desire is to hold you in my arms one last time before I fade into the Beyond, I am happy that you are not here to witness the horrors that have attacked Haven. I implore you not to cry: I have cried enough for both of us. If only there had been more time. Alas, the Maker has enforced his will_. I accept and fear my fate. My sacrifice, I hope, contributed to a greater good. _The man's voice quiets. Death is warm flesh turning into wax, a silence that leaves no echo; it lifts no burdens and leaves no corporeal soul. Cole folds the vellum into a small square and places it in the man's limp hand, curling the fingers over the note. Then, he moves on.

Many gather at the small altar by the gardens, framed by Andrastian banners and red candles - one for every dead. Hot red wax drips with emotional pain - they cry, tempering grief with faith. The Fade-sensitives (too close to the rifts - the portals force a second vision if ones stares too long) watch him with eyes and tears: they see earthy tones donned on a gaunt boy and a wide-brimmed hat. Then, they look away.

"He is a spirit," Solas says, his eagerness to share his knowledge as strong as the lock on his secrets. Solas is an elf mage with a shadow of a wolf. Solas is the shedding of self into waves of grief, the realization that there is only one path he would allow himself to take and that the path was lined with bones. Solas is good intentions done badly. "His arrival into our world predates the Breach. I would guess that he's been living among us for months, perhaps even years."

"He is a demon," Vivienne retorts, arms crossed, a thin barrier dances over her wrists. Her magic jumps at his slightest movements. She will not hesitate to strike if he steps too close. Her hostility is motivated by fear. She is right to be worried.

"I don't think I am a demon," Cole tells Amell. "But I am dangerous," he insists as he slowly tilts a cup of water against the parched lips feverish soldier. The drink tastes of an oasis in the Western Approach. _Thank you_. "You don't know me, but I know you. Rhys's mother and the Left Hand thought about you."

She tilts her head to the side – remembering a lined face, white hair, and stern eyes. In a secret drawer of her desk, there is an old invitation to a funeral wake that she hadn't been able to attend. Thin smoke rose from her lit candles - they were not the ashes of her body, but she pretended that they were."Wynne and Leliana?" She asks as they duck into a medical tent.

"A sacrifice fit for a mother. She hoped that Faith would be enough for she had nothing else to give to a son she doesn't know." Turning around, he kneels down next to a civilian that breaths shallowly from the pain of her recent amputation. The smith is designing a leg of obsidian frame wrapped in velveteen. It will be offered to her when she wakes. "I am in the letters they wrote. I was unwritten."

Her magic curiously probes his back. He hears the song of waves hitting the high basalt column cliffs of the Storm Coast. "Why wouldn't they mention you?" Her hand waves over a bandaged stump that used to be a leg. A blue tendril of magic from her open palm snakes around the wound site, glowing faintly. Though the bleeding stays sluggish, the patient's breaths slow as she descends into a fitful sleep.

"I made them forget." He replies as they move to the next tent. "It's easier to make people forget when they have more important things to say. Empty puppets can be given new vitality. She sends the knowledge out to those she thinks care and can help. But the knowledge does not travel far: the rebellion had already begun." They stand at the foot of a low cot where another man waits. Cole smells a black miasma of rot - the scout's eyes are open but he sees nothing.

A dagger slips down his sleeve and into his waiting hand. He shifts into the reverse grip, preparing to strike at the neck. Her hand wraps around his wrist; he can feel her pulse - he wonders if she feels the lack of his. "He has only a few hours left. The surgeon cannot do more. It hurts to live. Maker, strike me where I lie."

"Cole." She pulls him back. _Compassion still embraces mercy killing. Andraste's flaming sword, I should not be the one to make moral judgment calls. Even so... _"Stop."

"I hear his voice," he protests but allows himself to be guided out of the tent. "He wishes for death."

She shakes her head, "You only hear one part of him." _The mind is a place of conflict. He can wish and fear death. He can despair and hope. _"You said there's still a few hours left. More supplies and escorted professionals are expected at noon. More healers. Wait till then." She looks skyward at the rising sun and then at Cole who shrinks under her gaze. "This world doesn't deal in absolutes - it's not the Fade."

He picks at the bandaged handle of his dagger and asks after a considerable silence, "Is that why spirits turn into demons in this world?" Was it inevitable? Vivienne thinks so. Solas does not. "Do you think I'll be one? I want to stay and help."

Amell thinks of Anders and Justice, of Wynne and Faith, of Desire and Envy and Despair and Pride. In the end, she smiles, tips the brim of his hat back: _Not a demon, not yet: _and promises,"I'll make sure that won't happen."

**Iron Bull**

Two serpents and two songs: a middling hand that had the potential to turn into a set of three if he could just somehow entice Sera to give up her card of mercy. An hour into the game and he suspected that the blasted elf had palmed a half of the deck and the Vint had palmed the other. It was times like these where he regretted the lack of casual shirts in his closet. There was a reason why rogues wore sleeves, or, if not sleeves, gloves. Herald's Rest murmured with hushed voices and the crystal clinking of glass and silverware. The rhythmic thumps made by Boss's mabari, a tail hitting against the wooden stool he was perched on, hadn't stopped since Dorian had shuffled and dealt. Boss returned from the bartender with a tankard of honey mead and slid into the space between Dog and Sera, content to watch this round.

The table was full of small pieces of torn vellum with hastily scribbled down favors. "No more bees in the training dummies," Sera's handwriting promised - beneath the words was a small caricature of a man that looked suspiciously like Commander Cullen sprinting away from an angry swarm. Hidden among the slips of paper were Dorian's best razor, Sera's small torsion wrench and S-rake pick, and Bull's best spoon (a strange gift from Boss - she had insisted that it was a maul).

A few minutes later, Sera smirked and flipped the angel of death face-up onto the table. With wary anticipation, the four of them laid out their hand. Iron Bull leaned back into his chair and breathed out, a small grumble of discontent escaped his throat. Nearby patrons glanced up from their drinks in mild alarm before returning back to their conversations. Here is a joke that only Fereldens would understand: a qunari, a Vint, a city elf, and a mabari sit down at the bar and play cards. The mabari wins.

Boss gave a low whistle of appreciation. Groaning, Dorian allowed his head to fall into his hands as Sera cursed a storm of expletives that would've made an Orleisan noble faint. Dog barked happily as he stood on his haunches, leaned across the table, and nosed the entire pot to his side. "You don't wear sleeves either," Iron Bull peered at the mabari, nonplussed, as Dog started sorting through his loot.

"How?" Dorian asked, aghast. "How does..."

"I'll tell you how," Sera muttered darkly. "The mabaris I played with in Denerim always had tells. He's got none, always bloody happy about every bloody hand." Iron Bull rather thought that the Vint's shock came not from how much smarter Dog was compared to other mabaris but from the fundamental fact that mabaris were capable of playing Wicked Grace. For his mistake in humoring their newest player, Dorian lost all of his pocket money save for three coppers and the remaining pieces of his grooming kit. Crossing her arms, Sera glared at their new winner, "Gonna flip this table over if you keep smiling at me like that" Dog angled his head to the side, trying to look congenial. "Arse. What can you even do with a shaving blade and a giant spoon anyways?"

"He'll give them back if you promise him belly rubs and playtimes with his favorite stick." Boss serenely answered as she sipped her drink. She tugged at the cotton scarf wrapped around her neck, loosening it to more of a cowl than a constriction. "At least you didn't bet your clothes. Things would've gone differently." Bull snorted in amusement. The number one unspoken rule of Wicked Grace was that one must never bet clothes unless one was willing to walk the rest of the day feeling the wind on their bits.

"You're speaking from experience." He observed, rubbing his chin and waving a nearby waitress down for more drinks, slipping more than enough coins into her hand. Dog was just about finished sorting his prizes into two piles, lined up in order of value perceived by their previous owners. Dorian gathered the cards and began shuffling the deck.

Boss scratched Dog's ear as she took on a mock-sage air, "The image of Alistair in nothing but his smalls, begging Dog for his pants and armor back, is not one to be easily forgotten." Dog barked in agreement. After pushing one of the two piles before her with his paw, he licked her hand and jumped off his stool, curling his large body around her feet, and fell asleep. After silently counting how many sovereigns she had before her, she raised a bemused eyebrow. "Well, he's certainly feeling generous today." She mused and then rapped her knuckles against the wood of the table, "Deal me in, Dorian. Maybe you can partially recover from your losses."

Maryden sang _I am the One _by the fireplace, her voice danced across the wooden floors, over people's heads, up the stairs, drifting into the open courtyard of Skyhold. Bull offered a story of valor and heroics where he and his Chargers saved a village by fighting against fifty bandits and being paid in rice. Through the window, he spotted Krem still being debriefed by Scout Harding about their most recent excursion to the northeast sections of the Western Approach. Boss recounted a tale of chasing down nugs around Orzammar and how the Spymaster tried to carry one in her cleavage as their party moved back to base camp.

She still wore the disguise that Bull had lent her: a threadbare scarf, low key mercenary garb, skin-tone powder to cover her facial markings, and a small whispered illusion spell to conceal her grey eyes - with a slight slouch in her stance and an absence of the smooth gait that she usually adopted, she suddenly became a nondescript face among many, so long as no one looked too closely.

He had taken her to parts of the fortress, outdoor gatherings, that were heavily occupied by the lower ranks of the Inquisition: recruits and veterans, common and noble, both proud to serve. They offered to buy drinks for whoever was willing to set aside time for small talk - loose tongues were willing to answer hard questions. Alcohol spilled over glass rims and watered the grass.

* * *

Iron Bull was a mercenary-for-hire that had joined the organization solely for financial gain; Boss was a simple tag-along who could barely string two words together.

"Why did you join the Inquisition?"

There were many ways to frame the answer - at first glance, the reasons given varied like apples and oranges. Former Guard-Captain Mira had witnessed the Inquisitor fearlessly confronting the Elder One. Recruit Tanner had seen the recruitment posters that had made their way to Jader. Some had tragic pasts linked to the mage-templar war and were sick of pointless bloodshed. Others had made their way to Haven in hopes of gaining religious enlightenment and meeting the Herald of Andraste in person.

Upon closer inspection and deeper thought, one could summarize all the answers into one sentence: "I want to do good." The Inquisition offered that chance.

The scouts and soldiers departed one by one to their duties, leaving behind farewells and promises to socialize later. Boss stamped at the embers of the fire and ran a trembling hand through her hair as she watched the red coals fade to black. The pair of them pushed through the crowds, brushed shoulders with men and women distracted by their own engagements. Iron Bull gently guided her, a hand on her elbow, to the south side of the tavern where less people milled about.

"That wouldn't have happened if I hadn't looked like this," she later gestured downward, wiping her palms against the green cloths that peaked out of her chain mail, "They always gave the Herald a wide berth - as if it was sin to touch someone so holy without explicit permission." She glanced through the tavern window with a small smile: wistful and melancholic. "An Inquisitor. The Inquisitor," she corrected herself after a beat, "Now they'll probably be terrified to even glance in my direction."

"I'm sure it won't become that extreme, Boss." The tavern emanated a warm, yellow glow. His chargers were piled together on the far table, each too exhausted from their recent mission to walk back to their barracks, each fast asleep in comically uncomfortable positions. "You can always rely on Sera to bring you back down to earth. She'll be happy to help."

"Sera is Andrastian. But yeah, she still treats me normally," she shook her head and cleared her throat, "Alistair would be so proud. He's already sent me letters laughing at my predicament - that I'm essentially a ruler of two arlings." Then, smile sliding off her face like water, she grimaced, "I didn't realize that the religious veneration would be so hard to tolerate."

He raised an eyebrow, "You're fine with the changes?" and frowned when she wordlessly shrugged. While every high ranking member of the Inquisition had the weight of responsibility on their backs, her burdens as the leader, the decision maker, and the religious figure were nearly physical. It was a miracle that she was still able to stand straight.

"I'll get used to it, like I get used to everything else, given enough time," she rubbed her face, smearing the face concealer onto her bandages, revealing the faint outline of her tattoos: geometric lines stretched down her cheeks in a mimicry of her family crest. "Everyone else is OK with this. All of you think I'm suited. Even my wardens think I'm suited." She gestured wildly at the space before her, "You know what Nathaniel did when Leliana told him I was alive after Haven? He sent me a care package: a bag of pickled fish from the Waking Sea and fresh dog biscuits - so I 'won't forget the nostalgic smell of home' since I'm 'obviously not going to be returning any time soon.' And then he wished me the best. I think he saw me becoming Inquisitor before I did. Honestly, that man," she rolled her eyes, "at least he's doing well in my absence. The others respect my second-in-command. Nothing has burnt down," she paused, "yet."

Iron Bull inclined his head in thought. Her wardens weren't just nameless subordinates serving underneath her - they were her friends. "Your command over the wardens is different than your rule over the Inquisition," he clarified.

"A bit," she conceded, smoothing down her front, "As Warden-Commander, everything is more personal. Like you and your chargers, I've handpicked my men and women. But here, all these strangers," she waved a hand, encompassing the entire population of Skyhold. Everyday activities for the everyday man - normality eases away wariness like an elfroot balm. "The blind faith and zeal attached to spiritual leaders has always made me uneasy. But I feel better now that I met them and, well," this time, her smile reached her eyes, "what you showed me was nice."

"Just thought I'd help." He opened the tavern door for her; she slipped in and whistled for her mabari. In response, a series of barks originated from the stairs, growing steadily louder. "It's better if you can place faces to the people who believe in you and the people who you save. You're not alone."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, patting her knee as her dog bounded happily down the stairs and into her open arms, "thanks, Bull."

* * *

Varric walked into the tavern almost an hour later and immediately spotted their small group in the corner. Dorian offered a curt nod, a bit mollified now that he won his shaving kit back from Boss - though Bull was willing to bet a good coin that she had let him win them back because she couldn't bear to see his mustache wither from neglect. Sera was preoccupied in haggling for the return of her belongings.

("I'll make cake. The Ferelden ones - with all the butter and sugar," Sera wheedled and cajoled, tugging at the mabari's lone ear. Dog made an inquiring noise. "No cookies.")

Boss gave a casual two-finger salute as the dwarf approached, "Hey Varric, are you ready to go?" She asked as she polished off the last of her drink.

Varric offered a thumbs up, "Straight up to the battlements." He confirmed, "would be better if we avoided the training grounds. I saw Seeker there. I think she's onto me."

"Right," Boss winced in sympathy, "Right. Just let me change into something a bit nicer first," she pushed her stool back, tugging at the scarf, "Pity," she murmured as she made her way to the door, reluctant to part with the anonymity that came from the borrowed clothes, "They were beginning to grow on me."

An awkward stillness began to settle over the table. With Boss gone, Sera and Dog still in the middle of negotiations, the only other available person at the table to talk to was the Vint and as much as Bull wished otherwise, their conversations without a third party buffer haven't evolved past the haltingly given awkward greetings. Between them were two small glasses that the waitress had failed to pick up - and... Well... Good liquor loosened tongues. It was an idea at least. Inwardly shrugging, Iron Bull pulled out his canteen, meant for water, but instead contained Mackay's Epic Single Malt (older than the Maker and smoother than elven baby-butt). He poured a finger into each glass, and silently offered one. Dorian eyed the gift like it was magebane but accepted the token of friendship. "Another round?" Iron Bull gestured at the card deck in the other man's hand.

After a beat, Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and began to shuffle once again.

Hawke

When the first stories of the Hero of Ferelden conquering the Fifth Blight had reached him in Kirkwall, he had pictured someone who vaguely resembled Aveline, standing tall in the face of her enemies. When he had heard from his mother that the Hero of Ferelden was his second cousin, he pictured someone like Bethany, effortlessly taking down hurlocks and genlocks with her magic. When Varric's letters had described the Hero of Ferelden, a woman who bore a likeness to him in looks and action, he envisioned an odd combination of traits: his head on Isabela's body, striking the final blow against the Archdemon.

...Let it be known that his imagination was not one of his better qualities.

He assumed that she must have also been trying to place a face onto a name and title due to the amount of curious intensity in her eyes (grey - just like his). She tilted her head to the side, "you're awfully muscular for a mage," she remarked in a dubious tone, gaze slowly wandering from his face down to his arms.

Hawke blinked. That was not the greeting or tearful reunion he had expected and dreaded in equal amounts. Varric, the ever faithful best friend, was stifling his laughter behind a closed fist. He leaned back against the walls of the parapets and flexed the clawed gauntlet that encased his right hand, "Its the result of a good twenty or so years of chopping firewood and wrestling pigs in Lothering."

"Lothering?" She echoed, both eyebrows raised in surprise, "You lived there before Kirkwall?" She blinked, "...Huh. We might have unknowingly crossed paths then. I stopped by right after the Battle of Ostagar to reach the Imperial Highway." Hawke mimicked her expression of bemusement. Maybe the story that Bethany had told the Hawke family right before they escaped into the Kocari Wilds, how she had stumbled upon a brawl between wardens, Loghain's soldiers, and a Chantry Sister at Dane's Refuge, meant that she had caught a glimpse of her cousin. The thought made him smile. "Varric never told me about your humble farm boy origins."

Flashing a grin at Varric, Hawke blithely explained, "Humble doesn't fit into Varric's literature. Once he writes your story, you'll notice how he tends to embellish certain details," like the fact that his first meeting with the dwarf was not as suave as his biography portrayed it to be_. _In fact, no one, not Varric, Hawke, or Carver, had managed to catch the thief that had made off with all of their money pouches. (And the first words that Varric had said to him were, "Andraste's sagging tits. I'll get that bastard one day. ...Hey, you. Want to drown your sorrows with me at The Hanged Man?")

"I didn't hear you complain when I sent you my manuscripts," Varric grumbled in good humor, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. Hawke playfully nudged his shoulder.

"Not a complaint - more of an observation," chuckling under his breath, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a well-leafed through copy of _Tale of the Champion_. "Your manuscripts are lovely." Its edges were frayed and flecked with dirt, the spine was decorated in old blood stains. He had received the gift from a courier a few weeks after fleeing Kirkwall. It could not have come at a better time - after a lifetime of being surrounded by friends and family, loneliness in the Free Marches wilderness had hardened quickly around him like ice, constricting his usual cheer. Varric's book harked back to the bygone days, a little bit of happiness that he could keep at his side.

"Those plot elements work well in his fictional serials like _Hard in Hightown_. His biography... Yeah, not so much." She mused, drumming her fingers on the stone, eyes bright with jest, "Though I did find the whole groups-of-bandits-falling-out-of-the-sky trope absolutely hilarious."

The author in question rolled his eyes, "Instead of criticizing my writing style, maybe there should be more focus on the reason why I brought you two together." Hawke and Amell exchanged glances and turned towards him in eerie synchronicity. Not in the least bit fazed, he buffed his nails against his tailored coat, muttering, "And you know the world is ending when Varric Tethras has to steer the conversation to the serious matters." He clasped his hands together, "But where are my manners? I haven't even done the introductions yet."

"That's because we don't need them," Hawke pointed out.

Varric dismissed the comment with a careless wave. "It's the principle of the matter." He cleared his throat, putting on obvious airs, "Hawke. Your Inquisitorialness."

She offered a lopsided grin when they shook hands. "Amell is fine too, cousin," she added before launching straight into business.

* * *

_These days, you just can't trust your enemies to stay dead. Corypheus looked the same as ever, though less deranged and more vindictive. He also has a dragon, which, of course, an evil guy like him would have a dragon, wouldn't he? _Varric had written in his most recent letters - handwriting more elegant and compact now that he had an actual escritoire to work on. _Try not to get too nervous when you meet her - just be yourself. I think the two of you will get along like a house on fire. _

It was very hard to find people in this world who shared his kind of humor, who employed comedy and wit as a palliative against the tragic events that constantly cropped up around him like giant spiders - but she was one of the few. He wondered - What if Aunt Revka had raised her children as apostates? Would she have tried to contact his parents for assistance? Would his second cousins have been childhood friends? It was an interesting thought - pity that the actual family reunion had to occur under such distressing circumstances.

* * *

Hawke knelt over the scattered papers, opened books, and scrolls with a pen in hand. Amell sat cross-legged, muttering under her breath as she skimmed over his account of Corypheus in the Warden's Prison. Varric read over her shoulder, adding his own two coppers of what he could recall of traversing through the tower. Hawke leaned back, groaning as stiff joints creaked and popped; squinting upwards, he hazarded a guess that they've been sitting under the sun for at least three hours consolidating their information. Despite combing through the Vimmark Mountains and his father's journals after his self-imposed exile from Kirkwall, there was no additional facts to offer to the Inquisition - a darkspawn magister, a high priest of Dumat - nothing explaining how he had survived the fight against Hawke and his companions.

"If he had taken Senior Warden Janeka as a host." Amell guessed, rubbing her brows, thumbs pressing against her temples, "then it's not the dragon that has the traits of an Archdemon, it's Corypheus. Fantastic." She shook her head, expression grim, "I knew of an old ritual that could prevent an Archdemon's soul from escaping once its body dies - I don't know how effectively it can be applied here. If Warden-Commander Clarel hadn't gone mad, I would've asked her for assistance," she made a frustrated sound, waving a hand over the strewed material, "A Demon army. Who in their right mind thinks that a demon army is the solution to anything?"

"We'll need to first find the wardens' command post. Stroud would know where." Hawke leafed through a couple sheets of loose vellum, "The good news is that I managed to decipher his code and pin down the general location of his hideout. The bad news is that a couple of our messages were intercepted. If we meet any wardens in Crestwood, I don't think they would be willing to cooperate with the Inquisition, especially if they knew that you intend to challenge Clarel."

Her eyes took on the shade of cold steel, "They dare. I'm not their Commander but I am a Commander," she murmured, flexing her left hand as fade magic leaked through her bandages, "Actually," she tapped a finger on a correspondence between her and Clarel, smiling bitterly, "some of the wardens were my own. They defected to her side after the Calling began to influence the older veterans. Clarel thought that the remaining Old Gods were waking. She wanted to kill them before they even exited the Deep Roads. I thought the quest would end in meaningless deaths. But not all of my people agreed." She slowly stood, dragging her palms over her face, "they thought that I wouldn't be able to save the organization. If I had known what she was planning to do-"

"You hadn't known," Varric insisted, "It's not your fault."

"It hurts," she admitted, voice muffled by her hands, "I know them." Taking a few breaths to regain her composure, she said, "If we meet the wardens in Crestwood and if I try to bring them to heel, we'll run the risk of ruining any chance of cooperation."

For the next few minutes, the three of them silently gathered and organized their notes. Tightly rolling up the last scrolls, Hawke straightened, brushing dirt off the hem of his shirt, "Alright. We don't engage the wardens unless they have Stroud. I trust Carver not to do anything foolish, like suddenly deciding that he can take on the entire organization on his own, just before we manage to find them. He always had the best timing." Then, he froze as something occurred to him. "Oh," He turned towards Amell, "I forgot to mention - Carver is with Stroud. You haven't met Carver yet, have you?"

"Your brother?" She crossed her arms and shook her head, "The few times I met Stroud, he was alone." Curiosity flickered across her features, pushing aside her grief and sorrow, "Stroud didn't tell me that he had a companion. Do you think Stroud told him about us?" She paused, frowning in thought, "Does he even know that we're coming to rescue them?" After a beat, Hawke burst into laughter.

Varric shared the merriment. "Poor Junior," he snickered behind a hand, "A surprise family gathering? He'll be horrified."

"What?" Amell started, eyes widening in consternation, "why?"

Still chortling, Hawke leaned over to squeeze her shoulder, "We're a bit too alike. Carver is," he struggled a bit to find the words, "Carver is the little brother you never wanted but always needed."

"With a chip on his shoulder the size of his mabari tattoo," Varric added, wiping away a tear, still chuckling.

Amell still didn't seem to understand the humor and only looked increasingly confused. "I mean - I'm happy to know that he's out there. Alive. There's at least three of us."

"Five," Hawke corrected her, "But you might not want to count Uncle Gamlen. Man's a shameless gambler, drinker, and a regular at The Blooming Rose. His daughter, Charade, is much better company." Charade was the new owner of the Amell estate - what she chose to do with the family fortune was entirely at her discretion. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "we Hawkes and Amells watch out for one another like family, but being family doesn't stop us from making fun at each other's expense."

She chewed on her bottom lip in thought and then happily beamed. "Oh. Ok," her skin markings shifted with her change in expression. As a circle mage, the concept of familial love must have been completely alien and unattainable. The smallest proof that she had a family that would've unconditionally loved her would have been her most priceless treasure, guarded jealously from the templars who tried to remove any of her connections to a possible life outside the tower. To trust someone so much to give that treasure away...

* * *

_As a farewell, I had gifted my pendant to a friend whom I hold dear to my heart. Since then, I not sure if he even kept it. Frankly, I'm too scared to ask. The circumstance surrounding us is a bit of a sensitive subject and to bring it up might invite more painful memories. I guess that's why I decided to mark my face in a pattern that resembled the Amell crest - you can't loose something that is embedded in your skin. Make no mistake, I don't regret my decision - I just... He hasn't said anything about it. _\- She had written in one of her earlier letters.

It wasn't like Hawke was completely ignorant about the relationship between his cousin and former Knight-Captain Cullen : with the rumors circulating Kirkwall about the reasons behind the Ferelden templar's transfer, Varric's stories, Amell's letters, and the man himself - except... It wasn't speculation anymore. It was truth - and Hawke would be lying if he claimed that he didn't develop some degree of protectiveness over her in the little time that they got to know each other - she was about the same age as Carver... And Bethany, if she had still been alive. - After much deliberation, Hawke decided to wait until she had gone on an expedition to the Exalted Plains before searching Skyhold for the Commander of the Inquisition and...

* * *

Cullen worked through his assignments with frightening efficiency - missions, orders, soldier movements, training, and requisitions all stacked in neat little piles, determinedly ignoring the other man. Hawke suspected that his regular communications with Aveline via letters dripped with equal amounts of exasperation and inexplicable fondness had transferred some of the Guard Captain's skill of 'Hawke-wrangling.' ("Should you ever meet him, be wary of what piques his interests," she might have warned, "and do not encourage his jokes. If you must follow him into whatever adventure he sets out on, do so with caution. He is fond of force magic. If he likes you, he will be polite enough to warn you two seconds before he casts his fire spells.")

With his boots were propped up on a unused corner of the Commander's workspace, Hawke balanced on two chair legs, hands folded in his lap as he stared at the ceiling. The two men had already exhausted all of their safe conversation topics: the recent news from Kirkwall and... Yeah, that's about it. Hawke would rather have jars of bees dropped on him than delve into any hot water: the Amell family crest and the fact that the Commander's hands had a sort of tremor that he hasn't seen since he had met Samson in Lowtown (whatever that former templar was getting himself into, at least he isn't suffering from lyrium withdrawal) being one of the few untouchable matters at hand.

But he had came to the Commander's office with a purpose and he was not doing himself any favors delaying the inevitable conversation. _Well._ He scratched his beard. _This is going to be spectacularly awkward. _Hawke cleared his throat, "So," he dragged out the word as the sound of the pen nib scratching on vellum slowed and stopped, "Isabela once told me that she believed that the reason why Kirkwall templars were so disturbed and paranoid was because of the widespread popularity of taking vows against physical temptations. It's an an unusual trend since it never took hold in the other circles, from what I had heard on my travels."

"One of your acquaintances? The pirate captain? And she believes that she is deeply versed in the relationship intricacies between templars and circle mages?" The Commander sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, fatigue evident in the deep circles around his eyes, "Are you actually taking her word seriously? That is most certainly not a viable reason as to why the Kirkwall Circle treated their mages poorly."

Hawke leaned forward, a dull thud echoed in the office as he righted himself. "No. It's definitely not. But, her comment got me thinking - that if the Chantry can boldly hand out rules that control a templar's private life, then to what extent can the Chantry influence?" He gave a low whistle, "What do they teach to make someone think that in order to fully accept the Maker, one must swear to be chaste for the rest of his or her life? I'd go mad."

"Maybe so - the sermons in Kirkwall did put particular emphasis on resisting physical temptations," Cullen shuffled some papers, "But it's not as common as you would think. I never made those vows." And then he froze, suddenly realizing that he had said that last sentence out loud to someone who would capitulate on his admission.

Hawke tapped his fingers together, "And if I may ask why you didn't?"

"_I knew an Amell once. She was a special woman. Never met her like again."_

The other man's ears started to flush at the tips. "We," Cullen said wearily, eyes resolutely trained on the missives lying before him as he refilled his pen reservoir, "are not discussing this any further."

"You weren't one of the templar regulars at The Blooming Rose - Isabela would've seen you." Hawke continued as if the other man hadn't spoken, "Did you hope eventually for a happier life with a lover to greet you in bed every night?" Cullen resolutely looked down at his papers, refusing to answer. Still, with every verbal push, the man stiffened further, growing more taut, teeth clenched together so hard that a pulse jumped at his jawline, "A warm body under you? A warm body over you? A sweet mouth? Shapely curves? Soft hands?" He spread out his hands, "You're a man with needs, after all. Or," Hawke tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, "Or is it one woman in particular that you desire?"

To his credit, he did not jump when the inkwell shattered in Cullen's hand, stained glass falling onto the desk and ground, black following soon after, dripping between the gloved fingers and onto the reports. Cursing softly under his breath, Cullen stood, head bent down and away from the light, trying in vain to prevent the spill from spreading further.

Hawke silently looked down at the ink slowly seeping through the floor boards and then back up at the Commander who was blankly staring at the mess. He hadn't expected such an outburst: some blushing and stammering at most - perhaps he had grossly miscalculated the amount of tension in the air. "Do you need a private moment?"

"What do you want me to say, Hawke?" Cullen snarled, hands gripping at the edges of the desk, hard enough that the wood was beginning to loudly protest under the pressure, "It's obvious that you already know. Would it please you if I bare my heart and admit it out loud?" His fist impacted the desk, causing nearby papers to fly, "Yes, Amell is the reason why I never took the vows. Yes, I want her."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, his gaze taking on a more curious tone, "You are awfully tetchy today, Commander" He observed, allowing some amusement to leak into his voice.

"You just-" Cullen faltered, his previous rush of anger dissipating as quickly as it had risen, exhaustion again filling the void. "Of course you would. You're Hawke." He sank back into his chair, a hand running through his hair as he struggled to regain his composure. "Please excuse me. My behavior was not acceptable," he apologized through gritted teeth, "it is due to" _lyrium _"stress."

"My fault for giving you the run around." Hawke conceded, "I'll get to the point," he blew out a long breath and shrugged, "I know my cousin had forgiven whatever unpleasantness has happened between you and her at the Ferelden Circle - you were in shock, you were traumatized, you needed time to heal. Fine." He crossed his arms, one finger running over his sigil marked on his upper left arm, "But she didn't see you in Kirkwall. I did. And whether you were still recovering or not, you were part of the mess. Though you questioned the Annulment and eventually helped me stop Meredith, I remember your stance in the mage-templar debate and what you had said."

"_Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me. They are weapons. They have the power to light the city on fire in a fit of pique."_

After pulling off his gloves, Cullen buried his face in his hands. "I was wrong," he said after a few moments of strained silence, "I was drowning in my own vitriol and hate and I believed that I was doing right. I shadowed Meredith's footsteps - executing her policies because they seemed to be the only thing that kept the peace. But slowly, she had changed - or maybe she always had been mad but I was too blind to see." He leaned back in his chair, wiping a trembling hand across his brow, "her actions made me realize how cruel my own stance had become - it was not me - I thought I had become a monster like the abominations that took over the Ferelden Circle."

"And her?" Hawke gently prodded.

He laughed, bitter and wistful. "My last words to her in Kinloch Hold were aimed to inflict pain. I can only wonder why she decided to give me this second chance. I know how hard-earned and fragile her trust is," he rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't know what she sees in me. I swear I won't make the same mistake again. Or any. I'll take whatever she gives me."

Hawke sighed, fingers pressing into his temples, allowing the silence to hover between them for a good minute, "I don't have much family left. If you harm her, you will answer to me."

Cullen slowly blinked, "If I hurt her," he whispered, barely audible in the office, "I will do worse to myself than you possibly can."


End file.
